Poems
IBelieve
Credits and Dues, a series of haikus.pdfCredits And Dues, A Series of Haikus
The idea behind the series of haikus is that, as privileged men, one would like to think that we get far in education only because of our own efforts, which is not true. However, some men get defensive when you point out how the system was biased towards them, making it easier in the first place, because it feels as though it discredits their efforts. A big example is how when we are young, children's media already portray certain roles and expectations we as men sort of just live up to. It just so happens that these expectations set one up to pursue certain kinds of education more than women.
By: Johann Coronado
A Matter of Choice
In connection to the exhibition theme: gender equality in learning environments, the short poem encourages students to persevere in achieving gender equality by not hesitating to educate themselves and to constantly share their own opinions and knowledge to those around them. Since communication is key in establishing order and unity, the poem emphasizes that it is a matter of choice to speak up and look for ways to solve a prominent social issue just like Gender Inequality.
By: Jin Sue Yu
The Mover
Gender in Class, AKA "When we talked about the gendered experience of assault"
It started with a news report.
It was another case —
you know the type —
a girl’s photo getting taken and shared around.
Shocking, disgusting, poor girl, bad boy.
Forgettable, really, really forgettable.
It was meant to be a simple discussion.
Reporter shares the news, we listen, we talk about it.
But… we didn’t stop talking about it.
A volley of hands raised in class, I remember, and they kept coming, round and round for hours.
Girls talked about their experiences —
you know the type —
unwanted messages,
unwanted looks,
unwanted touches.
Boys talked about their experiences —
this I didn’t know —
they grew up thinking it was normal, you know,
and their guy friends had
unwanted looks,
sent unwanted messages,
gave unwanted touches.
But what I remember best, though, was the rage.
So much rage
and cynicism
and fear
and anger;
it choked us, we cried with it, we spoke with it.
Because think about it: it was another case.
Why is it another case?
By: Io Carpiso
“Gender” peeks into a discussion that takes a life of its own. In the Humanities strand, students often bring up issues they care about and they talk about it for half an hour or so. Here, they discuss the issue in multiple lenses and try to understand the big players, the whys, and the hows. However, when the topic of sexual misconduct came up, the discussion took two hours — talk points coming from both academic theory and personal experience. Gender is a personal experience. Discussing it in class can be made personal because of it: and it doesn’t make it any less important.
Politeness is a Gendered Protocol, AKA "Why can't I just be angry?"
In the clinicality of class discussions,
we talk about it.
Gender, feminism, equality across all orientations.
We speak about it, exemplify it.
It opens new bridges,
new realizations,
new understandings.
But as I smile and nod along, a dark part at the base of my brain boils.
What is stopping me from grabbing a cold tire iron to smash the glass of a passing car when the driver hoots out at me because I’m wearing shorts?
What is stopping me from tearing my rhinestone headband from my hair and smacking the cute candy-colored gems against the jaw of some jerk who forgot to hold his tongue for the locker room?
What is stopping me from standing on the street and screaming about how horrified I am, how terrified I am, how angry I am?
Women are born angry, I think.
We were born screaming from the wombs of screaming women,
our unholy screeching compounded to eternity,
and it waits in us, I think,
waiting to be unleashed and
unloaded like a thunderstorm.
But, instead,
I nod along and smile.
By: Io Carpiso
Feminism is a frustrating topic — its subject matter is comprised of the lack of rights, the lack of respect, and the lack of equality a person may have on the basis of societal perception. There have been four official waves of feminism and yet so many women and gender non-conforming people are affected by sexism to this day. The Philippines is at Asia’s forefront on gender equality but is still rife with transphobia and casual misogyny. So many people banner the label of “feminist” but disrespect or are apathetic to the issues faced by the people they allegedly stand by. With a title inspired by a line from trans author Isabel Fall, “Politeness” is meant to be a cry of anger and of frustration from a student who’s tired of the clinical discussion of gender equality. When there is so much to cry about, why shouldn’t we be angry? Can you blame a girl for not smiling as you want her to?
Individual Submission
My dearest boys,
If you must cry,
Then cry, by all means, cry.
My dearest girls,
If you must fight,
Then fight, by all means, fight.
And shall the world
Grow cold and blue
And slam the door on you,
And shall the others
Take your books
And judge you by your looks,
And shall the masses
Steal you craft,
And while you struggle, laugh,
And shall the others
Break your art
And try to break
Your soul apart
You're more than girls,
You're more than boys,
You're people who
Can make a choice.
By: Brielle Rodriguez
Breaking down and facing emotions is not less manly. Learning to stand up for yourself and others is not less womanly. Instead, they are more humanly. I believe that all of humanity must strive to be humanly, instead of manly or womanly, and for this to happen, changes in the educational environment must take place.
Dysphoric
Red fire
In my
Veins
Snarling
Snarling
Snarling
Never
Resting
And now
The body
Is
In pain.
Head throbbing
Stomach aching
Hands flaring
In a cauldron
Made of flame
Doused in bloody iron
Every pinprick has a name.
A name.
A moment.
Reeking
Of
Disdain.
~
My hands and feet are chained,
Suspended in mid-air.
I can't recall who put me there.
The room is dark, the light is swinging
Back and forth in petty balance.
Balance?
What is balance?
I do not hang within a balance.
A knife is poised before my chest
Suspended in mid-air.
I can't recall who put it there.
The blade is barely seen
In sallow glowing, brief fluctuation,
It does not glint, it is not dull
Every second switching
Between its hazy compositions.
A man is pacing
In front of me.
I cannot see his face.
Though I know that life has made him
Older than his age.
He walks along the shadowed walls,
Bare feet and naked torso
Hit by the swaying light.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Pacing.
The unknown can be so captivating!
A poison so alluring!
Why is he there?
To push the blade?
To free me from my chains?
Time passes by in glaring frames,
In flashes blurry at the edges,
Watching as life walks me by,
All from someone else's eyes.
Headache, hazy, blurry
But I prefer me murky.
Any sense of clarity
And I'd try to break free.
And he'd run away.
Run away from me.
For days
And days
And days.
Each second stepping closer.
Barely seen yet by the eye.
A sweeper making sure,
No speck of dust can pass them by.
I cannot use my voice
As if my lips were sewn.
No sound except
The pacing
And
His breathing
And
The whirring of a fan.
A fan?
Oh.
There is a fan.
It's quite spectacular to note
The most persistent, quiet noise,
Will only start to faze you,
When you've knowledge it annoys you.
The whirring and the buzzing.
He has started growling.
I have started laughing.
What is there to fight for?
He steps into the light
And looks me in the eyes.
Between the swaying of our sights, I find
He looks
Not like
The body.
His body
Looks
Like mine.
Although in place of eyes are shadows,
Darker than the deepest crevice
Even light's afraid to reach,
They swirl around his skull
And in their buzzing, beat.
They seep onto his fingertips
And bleed onto the knife,
And creep towards me---
I am fine.
I'll go in peace.
There was no fan.
There was no beating heart.
But there is the fact
There is no being born
Without the will to live.
I laugh as blood spills from my chest
And coughs up from my mouth
And spills onto the floor before his feet.
He does not smile.
He only snarls.
But it's alright.
I win.
I win.
I win.
We win.
In scenes the dullest
With tones the sharpest,
I now remember,
In remorseless red.
How people,
Other people,
---How encouraging of them!---
Had given me
The knife,
The chains,
A little bit.
A little bit.
Each
And every
Day.
They didn't think that I would win.
So it was me who hung me up.
And kept the knife above my chest.
And laughed as it crept closer,
So I'd prove to them I'd win.
There's barely blood inside me,
Swam onto the floor from me,
My worthless body short of life.
The shadows in his eyes now spell
Regret.
Regret?
What is regret?
I have never seen someone regret.
But I find that I can speak,
And with my final shaky breaths,
I laugh at him.
"I win."
By: Gwyn Tangog
Dysphoric (written July 2020) is about the confusion a child can experience when they do not naturally conform with gender roles (as dictated implicitly and/or explicitly by their society) and the pressure that comes from other people imposing it, whether silently or explicitly. This poem speaks of not noticing it as an issue until one realizes that it is and that it has affected them and maybe even limited them without them knowing. Dysphoric is about the pain the confusion and pressure bring about, the questions one can ask themself because of it: "Why wasn't I born (gender) instead? Then maybe my life would be easier." and how not understanding these feelings, repressing these feelings, and having silent cries for help being ignored and invalidated can even downward spiral into thoughts such as "If I lost the moment I was born, should I just give up?" and "If the world is like this, why do I even exist?" .
For me, this struggle came from isolation in a learning environment. So, I entreat anyone reading this to be careful of their words and its effect on others, and to be inclusive even a little bit more.
It could mean the world to someone else.