Posted by: nastypen | January 20, 2007

“You are adopted, you know?”

This is what my evil cousin told me when I was just sitting in a corner reading my comics. I was about six or so. He was grinning from ear to ear and said “You don’t look like us.” I thought, “That’s true. You’re ugly.” But didn’t say that out loud because early on in my life, I understood bullying too well.

I never asked my mom or dad if I was adopted. I mean, even at such a young age, I think my cousins are stupid enough to believe that I would fall for their sick and sad joke. Please. These are the same people who told me not to lie down on the grass and look up in the sky because St. Peter will fling his axe at me and chop my head off. To which I replied, “I thought St. Peter had a rooster? What kind of saint would weild an axe?”

This is the most cementing thing I felt when I am with my cousins. I can’t be adopted. My parents are wise and witty. My sisters are beautiful and have intelligent faces and good humored disposition. I could relate to them. Therefore, I am them. So, what’s this talk of adoption?

I guess the cousins want me to feel unbelonged to the family. As if I WANTED to belong to their branch of family of emotionally arrested idiots. The cousins would make fun at me that I am not muscular nor of rough and tumble kind typical of the males in the family.

True, I once hated a bullfrog for landing on my toes. I froze because I don’t want to ruin my blue slippers.

But, despite my dad being the macho guy, he NEVER gave me hell (he only gave me purgatory) for not being like him. He would mutter here and there but not so much a painful scowl and heavy-handed litany of fists and words that would reduce me to emotional-scarring. My family taught me that it is all about character that makes a person and not your ability to get into a fight with few scrapes.

I was just thinking of this adoption thing when I read from a piece of news about the novelist Ian McEwan found his long lost brother. This is a great piece of story amidst all these suicide bombers and global warming.

Ian had an older brother. The thing is, he was a product of an affair during World War II. the mother was fretful of the consequences when the husband returns from war. She promptly paid for an ad essentially giving up the son. “Wanted, home for baby boy aged one month: complete surrender,” it said.

So, the infant was taken away from the mother at a train station.

The husband died in the war. The mother wed her lover and had Ian McEwan.

While Ian took up to his scholastic ways with vim and vigor, the discarded son dropped out of school and became a bricklayer. The son that was given away traced his birth parents and found out he has a little brother who is a superstar in the literary world.

This story is amazing, I think. To have your very identity questioned and turned upside down. You were bricklaying most of your life laughing at jokes with lads about bazonggas and then you find out you are blood-related to this fantastic writer who has caused literary orgasms all over the world. Imagine such paradigm shift.

The son that was given away is now working on his autobiography entitled “Complete surrender.” Let’s see if literary merit is genetic, too.

So, this news got me thinking. What if I am not a member of this family? What if I was a lost infant from a gaggle of cross-dressing circus freaks? That I am from another planet? Or that I am the lovechild of an ethereal spirit? Oh please. There goes my imagination again.

I can’t be all of those. I am so ingrained in this family. People see me and they see my late father, beard and girth and all. My sisters point at my bulbous nose and eyes and say “It’s daddy!” And I inhereted my father’s laughter….loud, vulgar, defiant like a gay loose cannon. And my father was the very first metrosexual I know! While my classmates had fathers that looked like had a rabid cat for a barber, my father always had a clean head of hair, whether cropped or flowing. My father loved the fine things in life. Look at me. I can’t even wade through a flood without screaming “…BUT MY SHOES!!!!”

And how about my mother? I can’t be adopted. I mean only I can have a mother who would wear somthing like this:


I wanted to steal this pyjamas from her. I swear I squealed when I saw her wear this. “Ma, where did you buy that? Do they have thaat in XXXL?” She wore this as she was recuperating from an operation in Dubai last Christmas. Heaven forbid she would wear something boring! Ladies and gentlemen, my mother can wear effortlessly the most flowing of gowns and the campiest outfits on earth. I DEFINITELY am a child of this woman.

*sigh* and all this talk about adoption, family and belonging, make me feel more lonely as my mom is in dubai, my elder sister in Hong Kong, my younger sister in Abu Dhabi and my partner is in Cebu. It’s like I’m left to fend for myself in the cruel dirty city of Manila. Whooops, enter the drama queen! …and cut!!! Exit to stage left, drama queen!

But what if I have a long lost brother? Does he like Van Gogh or think that is a brand for a chocolate? Will he text like “Hu u?” Will he find Willie Revillame funny? Brrr….just the thought of having a total opposite, an evil twin, out there is scary.

Well, if I have a long lost brother, I hope he’s filthy rich and ask him if he could suggest any of his friends to be my sugar daddy. If he’s my opposite, I’m sure he won’t get the joke.



  1. your mom has funky pjs. haha. the story about Ian McEwan is cool. I wish I too had a long lost bro. But I doubt that. >_

  2. Whoa. Finally, my mom’s golden pyjama pants have found its match.

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