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Ang trans nga amiga ni Duterte (The trans woman who is a friend of presidentiable and Davao City mayor Rodrigo Duterte).

That, in not so many words, was how many members of the LGBT community of Davao City referred to Paloma Soledad, a 33-year-old ambulant vendor who sells knick-knacks (from kimpit or hair clips to blusa or blouses, to mobile phone chargers to DIY materials like screw drivers and the likes).

But Paloma is the first to dismiss this “title” (if it can be considered as such), saying that she may have crossed paths with Davao City’s somewhat revered mayor, but “pareha ra man iya treatment sa ako-a sa uban (he treats me as he does others),” she said. She does admit repeatedly crossing paths with him, particularly when “mubaligya ko sa city hall (when I sell my wares at the city hall),” she said. And at those times, “istoryahun pud ko niya. Sulti niya, bisan unsa mahitabo, bisan unsa kalisod ang kinabuhi, magtinarong daw sa life (he also spoke to me. He told me, no matter what happens, no matter how hard life gets, I should live accordingly).”

As a somewhat “regular” among those who cross paths with Duterte, it is not surprising for Paloma to be ribbed as the “rayna sa Dabaw (queen of Davao)” – something she just waves off with a laugh: “Walay rayna-rayna; nanginabuhi ra ta (no queens here; we’re all just making a living).”


For as long as Paloma can remember, “ingun-ani na jud ko (I’ve always been like this),” she said, referring to her being a transgender woman. “Gi-adopt lang man ko sa akong parents kay wala man gud sila anak. Pero bisan niadtong bata pa ko, binabaye na jud ko; gusto na jud ko ma-baye (I was adopted by my parents because they didn’t have children of their own. But even when I was young, I was already effeminate; I already knew I wanted to be a woman).”

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Fortunately for Paloma, “wala man na-issue pagka-trans nako (my being trans was never an issue).” And this may be because “naa man ko pulos (I;ve always been useful).”

This usefulness, in Paloma’s case, can be largely seen in her supporting of her adoptive family – that is, she helped feed both her father and her mother when the latter was still alive; and now she solely supports her father who is now legally blind.

Paloma still occasionally sees her biological family (from Toril). “Usahay, mu-adto ko didto; adtuan pud ko nila diri (At times I visit them there; they also visit me here),” she said.

For Paloma Soledad, “walay makatabang sa ato-a kundi atoang kaugalingon (no one can help us but ourselves),” she said.

For Paloma Soledad, “walay makatabang sa ato-a kundi atoang kaugalingon (no one can help us but ourselves),” she said.

At times, too, “mag-offer sila’g tabang (they offer to help out),” but Paloma said she prefers to do things on her own. “Dili ko ganahan nga naa mamuyboy (I don’t like it when people tell me I owe them something),” she said. “Mas gusto ko ako mismo ang gumagalaw (I prefer to take actions myself).”

The offer of help is actually needed because “lisod pud akong kinabuhi (my life has been hard).” Paloma earns from selling stuff approximately P300 per day, though most days, “dili kaabot ana (I don’t even reach that).” This money is hardly enough to buy “mga panganihanglan namo (our basic needs).”

Incidentally, “nakatabang pud si Mayor (Duterte) nako (Mayor Duterte has also helped me),” Paloma smiled. “Nag-donate ug goods nga nakatabang sa adlaw-adlaw (He donated some goods that helped in our daily needs).”

Then she added, with a smile: “Pero ang ‘Pilar Pilapil’, ako lang gapalit. Kinahanglan pud baya aron ma-flawless ta; ug aron magka-lubot ta (But I spend on my own for my hormones. I also need this to have good skin and voluptuous body).” Apparently, “dili man ko kakuha ug pills sa Social Hygiene Clinic kay para sa bilat lang man ihatag, dili sa trans (I can’t ask for pills from the Social Hygiene Clinic because they only give these to those who were assigned female at birth, not to transgender women).”

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Davao is actually considered the “least poor” among cities and municipalities in Mindanao, according to the National Statistical Coordination Board (NSCB), with the city having 13.2% poverty incidence rate in the 2009 Small Area Estimates of poverty among population by the World Bank and NSCB. But for those looking for a “face” of the impoverished in the city, Paloma (and her family) qualifies.

Wala mi kuryente (We don’t have electricity),” she said to explain the darkness that envelopes her house by 6.00PM every day. This has been like this for her and her father for months now “kay wala ko P2,000 ika-bayad sa kuryente (I don’t have P2,000 to pay for electric connection).”

They use gasera (gas lamp), instead, even if “lisod makit-an tanan (it doesn’t allow you to see everything).”

But as if her impoverished state is not enough hardship for Paloma, she’s actually also a person living with HIV (PLHIV).

Paloma used to work in Manila, and at that time, “pamhin jud ko (I presented myself as a cisgender gay man),” she said. “Naa ko bangas, dude-dude pa jud (I had beard, and I referred to others as ‘dude’).”

It was while she was working in Manila when Paloma believed she was infected with HIV. “Didto ko naka-avail sa promo (It was there where I availed of the ‘promo’).”

With a CD4 count of five, Paloma returned to Davao, expecting for the worst to happen.

Region XI – where Davao City is – reported 58 of the 751 new cases from all over the Philippines in February 2016. The region is actually among the areas that continue to register high HIV infection rates; from January 1984 to February 2016, the region had 1,871 (6% of the country’s total) cases.

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While Paloma was recuperating from an opportunistic infection, she got involved with local HIV-related organizations, eventually becoming a peer counselor. And it was what she learned that: 1) helped her face life, and 2) is now helping her help others.

Niadtong nahibal-an sa mga silingan nga naka-jackpot ko, grabe ang tsismis (When the neighbors discovered I’m HIV-positive, the gossiping was never ending),” Paloma said.

But Paloma said that “nawala man ang kahadlok sa ako-a (the fear about me subsided),” she said. “Karon, gahatag ko’g HIV 101; pati skimiling (Now, I give them HIV 101; as well as condoms and lube).”

Paloma likes to think that she’s been effective in sharing her experience. “Importante nga safe sex jud kay kung dili, hala, maka-avail mo sa ‘jackpot round’ (Safer sex is important, else you’d put yourself at risk for HIV infection).”


Paloma remains optimistic that so long as one adapts accordingly in life, life won’t always be bad. “Uyon uyon lang (You just go with the flow),” she said. “Happy happy lang (Just be happy).”

It is because that she’s living positively that Paloma has found love – i.e. she has a partner for almost two years now, and “kahibalo siya sa akong status (he knows my HIV status).”

For Paloma, “walay makatabang sa ato-a kundi atoang kaugalingon (no one can help us but ourselves),” she said.

Paloma, nonetheless, stresses the need “nga magtarong sa life aron dili ta mapahamak, ug dili pud mapahamak ang uban (that we live life accordingly so we don’t harm ourselves, and we don’t put others at risk),” she said. “Ipakita nga honest ka sa people, honest ka sa imong sarili (Show people your honesty, and be honest to yourself).”

And so life continues for this rayna sa Dabaw

The founder of Outrage Magazine, Michael David dela Cruz Tan is a graduate of Bachelor of Arts (Communication Studies) of the University of Newcastle in New South Wales, Australia. Though he grew up in Mindanao (particularly Kidapawan and Cotabato City in Maguindanao), even attending Roman Catholic schools there, he "really, really came out in Sydney," he says, so that "I sort of know what it's like to be gay in a developing and a developed world". Mick can: photograph, do artworks with mixed media, write (DUH!), shoot flicks, community organize, facilitate, lecture, research (with pioneering studies under his belt)... this one's a multi-tasker, who is even conversant in Filipino Sign Language (FSL). Among others, Mick received the Catholic Mass Media Awards (CMMA) in 2006 for Best Investigative Journalism. Cross his path is the dare (read: It won't be boring).


Paolo, naked

Paolo Dumlao, a pansexual Filipino performance artist, uses his naked body as a canvas, believing that art can help the people – both the artist and those who see the artworks. “It makes people think, ask… and feel,” he said, all relevant because “we’re not robots; we’re humans.”



Four years ago, Paolo Dumlao, a pansexual Filipino, did his first performance art “ as mema lang (out of whim),” he said. At that time, he just wanted to “tick off something from my bucket list.” But he fell in love with the form, and so stayed with it.

Here’s the thing: In his performances, Paolo is always in the nude since he is a nude artist.

There is reason behind this, he said. “It’s not because it’s something different, or because it’s something new since it’s been done before… but because for me, the feeling (when one is nude) is very vulnerable, and i think it’s my most vulnerable form, and I want to be in that state when I perform so I can emphasize with people.”

To be clear, Paolo is not a performing artist; instead, he is a performance artist.

Performance art is different from performing arts. With the latter, “you are portraying a character that is not you. So you’re using your body as a canvas to create another character. When it comes to performance art, you yourself are the character, and the message you relay is different outside of the text,” he said. “At least that’s what I am doing.”

Paolo noted that there are people who see performances of nude artists as sexual, and he said this is not necessarily true.

On the one hand, just because one is naked doesn’t mean the piece is sexual, as “it could be pure, it could be wholesome (even if the performer is not clothed). And I am able to show these (through my performances), and that (things aren’t) just black and white.”

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And so, it is worth stressing, “it is not pornography; I am not selling my body, I am just using my body as canvas for my art.”

Paolo said that malice needs to be removed when viewing particularly his performances – i.e. “We don’t give malice when seeing a naked child, so why give malice when seeing a naked adult?” This is particularly true when “they’re not doing anything malicious or anything sexual.”

On the other hand, Paolo said with emphasis, even if the piece is also sexual, it’s not like there’s something wrong with that. “We’re all different; sensuality is different for everyone, just as sexuality is different for everyone. You can be modest and that empowers you, and that’s fine. You could be very, very promiscuous and very sexual, and that empowers you, and that’s fine, too. As long as you’re responsible with yourself, you’re responsible with dealing with other people, and you know for a fact you’re not stepping on other people’s toes.”

Though Paolo has been inspired by various artists, his main inspiration are the people he deals with. “My interaction creates an experience for me, and from that experience, I get inspired to make more art,” he said.

Paolo said he gets two reactions when he performs. For one, there are people who get “the vulnerability,” he said. And, secondly, “there are times when (people) get intimidated.” But with performance art, “your art is effective when you get a reaction, once it creates discourse.” And so for Paolo, the piece still works “even if only one person gets it.”

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There are members of his family who disapprove what he does, though Paolo said this is largely due to security issues – e.g. he could get harassed, or he could be accused of harassing and could get in trouble for this. But Paolo said that he is actually cautious when planning performances, making sure that – yes – he does so in a safe space where he won’t be harassed, and only in contexts where he won’t knowingly end up harassing people.

For those who oversimplify what he’s doing as “just getting naked”, Paolo said performing is actually very draining, not just mentally but also physically. Which is why “I look after my body,” he said, “because I use my body as my canvas and I need to take care of it. I always make sure I am ready for it; it’s strenuous.”

If there’s one lesson his performances taught him, it’s that “we share similar stories,” Paolo said. “We share similar pain, we share similar happiness or success… The levels may be different on how we deal with these, but they’re similar.”

And after his performances, if there is one thing he wants those who see him to take away from seeing him, it’s the ability to “ask questions,” Paolo said. “Never be afraid to ask questions. It’s a start of being curious, of interacting with other people. So if possible, ask all the questions you can ask. It’s a way to grow as a person.”

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#KaraniwangLGBT: My life as a beautician

What is it like to work as a beautician to support your entire family in the province? Outrage Magazine chats with Jillian Agbuya, who has been working in the beauty industry since after she finished high school, just so she can send money to her family in Pangasinan.



This is part of #KaraniwangLGBT, which Outrage Magazine officially launched on July 26, 2015 to offer vignettes of LGBT people/living, particularly in the Philippines, to give so-called “everyday people” – in this case, the common LGBT people – that chance to share their stories.
As Outrage Magazine editor Michael David C. Tan says: “All our stories are valid – not just the stories of the ‘big shots’. And it’s high time we start telling all our stories.”

Jillian Agbuya, 23, only just finished high school when she started working as a beautician.

When she was younger, “gusto kong maging (I wanted to be a) teacher, a psychologist, a model,” she said, wanly smiling. None of these happened, though Jillian just looks at how she ended up in a positive way. “Masaya na rin ako kung ano naging trabaho ko (I also find happiness in the job I ended up having).”

Though Jillian identifies as a “babaehan (like a woman)”, she does not see herself as a trans woman. This is because of a misconception – i.e. she believes that only those who can afford to undergo gender affirmation surgery can use the term “trans”. And so she offhandedly uses words like “gay”, “bakla” and “babaehan” to refer to herself, even if her lived experience is that of a straight (trans) woman. If she is given the chance, she would like to be a “real woman” by “becoming trans”; though she said it saddens her that she has to save a lot just to be able to identify as a “trans woman”.

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As a “babaehan”, she uses the female pronoun (thus the use here).

Originally from Pangasinan, Jillian moved to Caloocan when she finished high school around six years ago. “Doon ako tumagal ng (I stayed there for) five years,” she said, crediting her past workplace as “doon ko natutunan lahat (where I learned everything).”

Jillian, by the way, also studied cosmetology with Technical Education and Skills Development Authority (TESDA).

As the fifth of 11 kids, Jillian said her family always “nag-udyok (encouraged)” for her to be the way she is. All her elder siblings are male, so her father – who wanted a girl – encouraged for her to be “girly”. They bought her dresses, and treated her as a girl; and so, for Jillian, it wasn’t surprising she became what she is now. She was in Grade 1 (around seven years old) when she realized she was part of the LGBTQI community.

When she graduated from high school, Jillian actually wanted to pursue college. She even started inquiring about BS Psychology. But then, “sa kawalan ng pera (because we are not financially capable),” she had to stop schooling and start working.

Nung una, nahirapan ako (At first I had a hard time, too),” she said. “Pero ngayon, easy-easy na lang (But things come easily to me now).”

Jillian is the breadwinner of her family. Daily, she earns from P300 to over P1,000; and every week, she sends money to her mother.

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Now working – and living – in Makati City, she hopes to be with her family when she gets older, and hopefully already running her own business. “Sila talaga priority ko eh (My family is really my priority),” she said.

Jillian said she never regretted being “babaehan”. “Paninindigan ko talaga pagiging (ganito) ko (I really stand up to what I turned out to be),” she said. “Kasi kung iisipin ko ang pam-bu-bully sa akin ng mga tao, wala naman silang ginagawa para sa kagandahan ng buhay ko eh, kundi sarili ko lang (If I pay attention to those who bully me, I realize they don’t really do anything to better my life anyway; it’s only me who looks after myself).”

And this more empowered perspective is what she hopes young LGBTQI people to learn.

Maging ka-respe-respeto; huwag maging bastusin. Kailangan maging proud ka kung sino ka basta huwag ka lang gumawa ng masama sa kapuwa mo… para sa susunod na henerasyon para malinis ang ating pangalan bilang LGBT community (Be a respectful/respectable person. You should also be proud of who you are; and don’t do anything bad to others… for the next generation and for the entire community to have a good name),” Jillian ended.

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To live a life in service

Meet Carla Culaste, the trans houseparent of a halfway house for people living with HIV in the City of Manila. It’s a challenging – and yet fulfilling – job, he said, as he stressed to others to learn more about HIV to promote non-discrimination.



This is part of #KaraniwangLGBT, which Outrage Magazine officially launched on July 26, 2015 to offer vignettes of LGBT people/living, particularly in the Philippines, to give so-called “everyday people” – in this case, the common LGBT people – that chance to share their stories.
As Outrage Magazine editor Michael David C. Tan says: “All our stories are valid – not just the stories of the ‘big shots’. And it’s high time we start telling all our stories.”

Carla Culaste, now 26, was around 12 years old when he first visited the Positive Action Foundation Philippines Inc. (PAFPI). His sister worked for the non-government organization that was founded by his gay uncle, Joshua Formentera. Even then, he said that he was always “impressed” with how it was able to touch the lives of Filipino PLHIVs, providing them a “safe space” when even their own homes failed to do so.

Little did he know that – by the time he’d turn 22 – he’d be working as the houseparent of the NGO’s Abot Kamay Center, a halfway house for PLHIVs who are in need of a helping hand to get back on their feet.


From Monday to Friday, Carla sleeps at the center. On weekends, he heads home (in Parañaque, where his family lives). But even if his work is actually supposedly only from 8:00AM to 5:00PM, “as a houseparent, 27/7 ka nakabantay (I watch after them 24/7).”

Part of Carla’s job is to “always check on the clients” – from checking if they have supplies of their medicines, if they actually take their medicines on time, if they eat properly, et cetera. This is particularly true when dealing with new clients who may still have physical limitations and need help in their day-to-day living in the shelter.

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Aside from this, Carla also helps manage clients who may need to be rushed to the hospital, particularly when “wala silang pamilya na willing tumulong sa kanila (if they don’t have family willing to help them).” By extension, therefore, Carla becomes an alternative family member.

Iniisip ko kasi, bilang houseparent, hindi lang ako nanay o tatay sa kanila (As a houseparent, I do not only see myself as a father or a mother to them), Carla said. “Ano rin ako sa kanila… kapatid, kaibigan na puwede nilang takbuhan pag kailangan nila ng makakausap (I am also a sibling, a friend to them; someone they can go to if they need to talk to someone).”

But it is a fulfilling job, particularly when he sees people he helped do well in life. “Nakakasaya rin (It makes one happy),” he said.


Carla didn’t finish high school; though if given a chance, he’d like to study again.

As a trans man, his life was not always easy.

The youngest of six kids, he always identified as a trans man.

“Before, hindi nila ako matanggap (In the past, my family couldn’t accept me),” he said. “Against sa religion nila (Being LGBTQIA was against their religion).”

As a child, two of his borther also bullied him; they hurt him verbally, as well as physically.

When he told his parents about it, they just dismissed the bullying, telling Carla that perhaps “naglalambing lang sila (they were just being affectionate)”.

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But Carla said he still chose to be what he is because this is what makes him happy.

By the time Carla had his first partner, “wala na rin sila nagawa (there was nothing they could do but accept me).”

In hindsight, that experience taught Carla an important lesson in life: To be accepting.

Kung paano mo i-treat ang tao… ipakita mo sa kanila na kaya mo silang intindihin kahit magkaiba kayo (In treating people, show them that you can understand them even if you’re different from each other),” Carla said.


With her exposure to the HIV community, Carla wants PLHIVs to learn to care for themselves. For instance, not to do things (e.g.vices) that will – in the end – just be bad on/for them. “Huwag matigas ang ulo (Don’t be hardheaded),” he said.

To everyone, he said “huwag kayong matakot sa PLHIVs (don’t be afraid of PLHIVs).” In fact, “matuto tayong sumuporta (sa PLHIVs) hindi lang sa kamag-anak natin (na may HIV). Maging concern din tayo sa iba. Iwasan natin ang discrimination (We should learn to support PLHIVs, not just relatives who may have it. We should show our concern to everyone. We should avoid discrimination).”

Learning also helps, he said, “at bigyan natin ng kaalaman sarili natin tungkol sa HIV kasi dagdag impormasyon yan para sa atin (and for us to add to our knowledge everything about HIV since this is good to our lifelong learning).”

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For more information on Positive Action Foundation Philippines Inc. (PAFPI), visit Abot Kamay Center at 2613 Dian St., Malate, City of Manila, 1004 Philippines.
They may also be reached at (+632) 4042911; or email

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Photos from the fringes of the rainbow

How Outrage Magazine’s #KaraniwangLGBT eyes to help broaden LGBTQIA representation in the Philippines by documenting those at the fringes of the rainbow. As editor Michael David Tan said: “To really engage, we have to allow others to shine. Hopefully, in a small way, #KaraniwangLGBT does that.”



On June 13, 2015, fashion designer Veejay Floresca – who happens to be a transgender woman – alleged that she was almost refused entry by high-end bar Valkyrie in Taguig City.

“Because: 1. that venue was frequented by the so-called ‘high and mighty’ and the social climbing crowd; 2. one of the owners of the venue is a local celebrity in the person of Vice Ganda; and 3. Floresca, herself, was a mini-celebrity, the ‘Valkyrie issue’ made a big splash in the news,” recalled Michael David C. Tan, editor of Outrage Magazine.

TV personality Boy Abunda – an openly gay man himself – interviewed Floresca in ABS-CBN; and national dailies like Inquirer and The Philippine Star tackled Floresca’s “almost non-entry” into an exclusive bar.

But also around that time – on June 22, 2015 – Michael David interviewed another transgender woman: Claire Balabbo. Claire was one of the 96 contractual employees of Tanduay Distillers Inc. in Cabuyao, Laguna who decided to launch a sudden strike after they were told on May 16, 2015 to stop reporting to work by May 18.

“While a handful of alternative media picked the picketers’ story (for instance, Altermidya), this story remained largely ignored,” Michael David said.

And for Tan, this highlighted a “sad reality”, an “imbalance that should embarrass us all” because of the “seemingly too apparent preference to provide coverage to the issues of the rich and famous; but not of those at the fringes of society.”

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Ryan B.



Aside from her issues as a contractual worker, Claire also encountered work-related discrimination as a trans woman – e.g. when she just started working for Tanduay Distillers Inc., the HR office allegedly forced her to cut her hair, else risk getting fired from work; and she was physically harassed at work, though the HR office allegedly just dismissed her claim since “all workers were ‘male’ anyway” and that the co-workers may have just been joking around (as boys do).

Particularly looking at the Valkyrie versus Tanduay issues superficially, one is about accessing a space to party; while the other is about being able to work decently to make a living.

This helped drive the development of #KaraniwangLGBT, with Michael David starting to photo-document “LGBTQIA Filipinos at the fringes of the rainbow,” he said.

Michael David said that “in no way is this effort belittling the issues raised in occurrences like the Valkyrie debacle – e.g. access to space. Instead, this is an attempt to ‘give face’ to those who do not usually have the same access to, say, media and representation.”





#KaraniwangLGBT became a section in Outrage Magazine, with the effort to tell the stories of “common LGBTQIA people” bringing Michael David (and the staff of Outrage Magazine) all over the Philippines. And what – initially – started as a photo campaign evolved, with this section now also telling the stories of the subjects via write-ups and mini-documentaries.

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To date, Michael David has already photographed/documented – among others – members of the LGBTQIA community who are also Moros, sex workers, church workers, HIV advocates, differently-abled/PWDs, PLHIVs, members of Lumad communities, contractual workers, homeless, victims of domestic abuse, et cetera.

Jelly Ace




“To really engage, we have to allow others to shine,” Michael David said. “Hopefully, in a small way, #KaraniwangLGBT does that.”

Following Floresca’s media tour, Valkyrie eventually amended its policy to allow trans women to party in its premises. But the “Valkyrie effect” was minimal – e.g. only Valkyrie made changes; and was Taguig City, where Valkyrie is located, still does not have an anti-discrimination ordinance, so venues there can still opt to implement discriminatory policies similar to what got Valkyrie in hot water.

Balabbo was not able to return to work. She now helps other contractual workers in other factories/plants in Laguna to organize to also fight for their rights.

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The young believer

For Ian Jaurigue, it is nice to know that there are already a lot of people who support the LGBTQI community these days. “But as long as there is still inequality on the basis of one’s SOGIE, our call and our fight should be stronger,” he said.



“As long as there are LGBT advocates who will fight tirelessly for the advancement of our advocacy, things will get better.”

So said 19-year-old Ian Jaurigue, a self-identified “gender advocate”.

And Ian believes that “(the older generation) did a good job when it comes to working for the advocacy, and we need to learn from their experiences and be grateful for it. If they did not start it, the advocacy would not have had moved forward.”

According to Ian, the young advocates today still have a lot to do; and for Ian, this is “not just talk and rant about (the issues).”

But while recognizing the efforts of those who helped start the movement, Ian also recognizes that there are gaps. And these gaps are not helped by the “disconnect” between his generation and the one before it.

“The struggles may have evolved and revolutionized, but we, the younger generation, still need to reflect and learn from what they have accomplished,” he said. Only “by doing this (will we be helped to) have a stronger grasp of our advocacy.”

Also, even if the LGBTQI movement has reached new heights, according to Ian, the young advocates today still have a lot to do; and for Ian, this is “not just talk and rant about (the issues).”

“It is nice to know that there are already a lot of people who support us. But it does not mean that we should settle for these little triumphs. As long as there is still inequality on the basis of one’s SOGIE, our call and our fight should be stronger,” Ian said.

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Incidentally, Ian is also a freelance makeup artist, theater and indie actor, dancer, a student at U.P. Diliman, and… a drag artist. He is known in the drag community as – plainly – Mrs Tan.

“My style is a mixture of dance, comedy, and theater,” Ian said.

Though he is still new in the world of drag, Ian believes that the way he carries himself and how he performs onstage prove that “age is nothing but a number”.

Ian merges his advocacy with his performances, making sure that “every performance brings a certain message and not just a spectacle. I like the feeling when I’m able to give a deeper message to the audience while I’m performing,” he said.

His first foray into the world of drag was when he joined U.P. Samaskom’s Live AIDS. Ian took on the role of a drag queen. But he felt, during that time, that “drag should be more than what I did in Live AIDS; there should be meaning to it.”

Whenever he performs, “I feel a sense of fulfillment and liberation. I’m not just entertaining people, I’m also giving them something to think about. There is pride to it.”

For someone as young as Ian, “Pride is both a celebration and a revolution.”

On the one hand, it is a celebration of the LGBT community’s diversity, accomplishments, and ongoing contributions. But on the other hand, “Pride is also a protest for the members who are not able to take advantage and enjoy their basic human rights, and for those who have died because they are members of the LGBTQI community,” Ian ended.

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“It is nice to know that there are already a lot of people who support us. But it does not mean that we should settle for these little triumphs. As long as there is still inequality on the basis of one’s SOGIE, our call and our fight should be stronger,” Ian said.

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All hail the beauty queen

A glimpse into the life of a trans woman beauty pageant enthusiast, Ms Mandy Madrigal of Transpinay of Antipolo Organization.



This is part of #KaraniwangLGBT, which Outrage Magazine officially launched on July 26, 2015 to offer vignettes of LGBT people/living, particularly in the Philippines, to give so-called “everyday people” – in this case, the common LGBT people – that chance to share their stories.
As Outrage Magazine editor Michael David C. Tan says: “All our stories are valid – not just the stories of the ‘big shots’. And it’s high time we start telling all our stories.”

“I feel accepted.”

That, said Mandy Madrigal, is the main appeal of joining beauty pageants.

“I feel so loved when I join pageants. Especially when people clap for us, cheer for us. And when you win… it (just) feels different.”


Assigned male at birth, Mandy was in primary school when her father asked her if “I was a boy or a girl”. That question scared her, she admitted, because – as the only boy among six kids – she thought she did not really have “any choice”. “So I answered my father, ‘I am a boy’.”

But Mandy’s father asked her the same question again; and this time, “I said, yes, I am gay.”

No, Mandy is NOT gay; she is a transpinay, and a straight one at that. But the misconceptions about the binary remains – i.e. in this case, she is associated with being gay mainly because she did not identify with the sex assigned her at birth.

In a way, Mandy said she’s lucky because “I believe he (my father) accepted (me) with his whole heart.”

The rest of her family did, too.

Though – speaking realistically – Mandy said this may be abetted by her “contributions” to the family. “Hindi naman aka basta naging bakla lang (I’m not a ’typical’ gay person),” she said, “na naglalandi lang o sumasali lang ng pageant (who just flirts, or just joins beauty pageants). Instead, Mandy provides financial support to her family by – among others – selling RTW clothes and beauty products. In fact, some of her winnings also go to the family’s coffers. By helping provide them with what they need, “it’s easy for them to accept me as a transgender woman.”

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Growing up, Mandy realized that while “makakapagsinungaling ka sa ibang tao, pero sarili mo, hindi mo maloloko. Kaya mas magandang tanggapin mo ang sarili mo para matanggap ka ng ibang tao (you may be able to lie to others about who you really are, but you can’t lie to yourself. So it’s better to accept your true self so that others will be able to accept you too).”

Mandy was “introduced” to beauty pageants when she was 13 or 14. At that time, a friend asked her to join a pageant; and “I won first runner up.” She never looked backed since, even – at one time – earning as much as P20,000 after winning a title. Like many regular beauconeras (beauty pageant participants), she also heads to distant provinces to compete, largely because – according to her – prizes in provincial competitions tend to be higher. The prize money earned helps one buy more paraphernalia for the next pageants, and – in Mandy’s case – also helps support her family.

Generally speaking, Mandy Madrigal said that “ang tunay na queen ay may malaking puso (a real queen has a big heart).”


Beauty pageants are competitions, yes; but for Mandy, pageants also allow the candidates to form bonds as they get close to each other. Pageants, she said, can be a way “na maging close kami, magkaroon ng magagandang bonding… at magkakilala kami (for us to be close, to bond and get to know the others better).”

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Pageants can be costly, Mandy admitted – for instance, “you have to invest,” she said, adding that a candidate needs to be able to provide for herself (instead of just always renting) costumes, swimsuits, casual wear, gowns, and so on.

In a way, therefore, having people who believe in you helps. In Mandy’s case, for instance, a lot of people helped (by providing necessities she needs) because “naniniwala sila na I am a queen inside and out,” she smiled.

But this support can also rack the nerves, particularly when people expect one to win (particularly because of the support given).

One will not always win, of course; and this doesn’t always give one good feelings. In 2017, for instance, Mandy joined Queen of Antipolo, and – after failing to win a crown – she said many people told her she should have won the title, or at least placed among the runners-up. “naguluhan ang utak ko (That confused me),” she said. “‘Bakit ako ang gusto ninyong manalo?’ But that’s when I realized na marami ako na-i-inspire na tao dahil marami nagtitiwala sa akin (I ask, ‘Why do you want me to win?’ But that’s when I realized that I inspire a lot of people, which is why they count on me).”

This gives her confidence; enough to deal with the nervousness that will also allow her to just enjoy any pageant she joins.


Mandy believes pageants can help LGBTQI people by providing them a platform to showcase to non-LGBTQI people why “hindi tayo dapat husgahan (we should not be judged).”

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Generally speaking, Mandy said that “ang tunay na queen ay may malaking puso (a real queen has a big heart).”

And she knows that not every pageant is good for every contestant. There will be pageants where you will be crowned the queen, she said, just as there will be pageants where you will lose. But over and above the winning and losing, note “what’s most important: that there’s a lot of people who supported you in a (certain) pageant.”

At the end of the day, “sa lahat ng patimpalak, pagkatandaan natin na merong nananalo at may natatalo. Depende na lang yan sa araw mo. Kung ikaw ay nakatadhanang manalo ay mananalo ka; kung nakatadhanang matalo ay matatalo ka talaga. Yun lang yun. Isipin mo na lang na meron pang araw na darating na mas maganda para sa iyo (in all competitions, remember that there will always be a winner and a loser. It all depends on your luck for the day. If you are fated to win, you will win; if you are fated to lose, you will lose. That’s that. But still remember – even when you lose – that there will always come a day that will be great for you).”

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