I remember one incident when I was in my second year of college.
I had just lost my cherry and I thought it was a momentous enough occasion to warrant being written for posterity in my handy-dandy journal. Those were the days before blogging and I kept a journal because I had writer-ly aspirations. They say that the best way to learn how to become a writer is to write.
But I digress…
After doing the deed, writing the event down in my journal that is, I casually returned the journal in the bowels of my desk drawer safe within my collection of books and scrap papers.
Or so I thought.
A couple of days later, my mom paid me a surprise visit.
My landlord, being the decent human being that he is, obliged to open my dormitory room so that my mom can wait inside in relative comfort while she waits until I get back from class. Lo and behold, what does she do while she waits?
She rummages through my drawer and finds my journal…and proceeds to read it!
A few minutes later I arrive from school and I find my mom crying.
I was about to ask her what’s wrong when I spot my journal half open near her on the bed.
“You read my journal!?” I ask in a panic.
“You’re having sex!?” she counters.
“My god, you’re reading my journal!”
“You’re having SEX!”
About fifteen minutes later…
“You’re reading my journal!”
“You’re having SEX!”
It was a stalemate if I ever did see one.
I was outraged that my mom had violated my privacy and she was shocked that her son has started engaging in sexual activities. The shouting match ended when she decided to go home because we weren’t getting anywhere (aside from the fact that we were both getting hoarse).
One thing I know about my mom: she was uncomfortable talking to me about sex and I knew she would not bring it up again if it can be helped. This particular situation however, cannot be helped. This was her one and only son we’re talking about here so, like any good mother would, she called in the big guns.
She called in my uncle (her brother) to talk to me about sex. Oh, brother.
Apparently, my uncle was also a bit uncomfortable talking to me about sex because when he finally turned up in my dorm a few days later he reeked of alcohol which suggests that he did a few rounds to “fortify” himself.
He was going to take me out to dinner, we were going to have a talk, and by his manner of speaking I knew that I had no say in the matter.
“We’re going to have dinner and that’s that.”
After an admittedly good meal came the much anticipated “talk”.
“Your mom told me that
you finally had sex”
I remember internally
bracing myself for the
furious flurry of argument
and sermon that I know will
be coming after that initial
“Was it good?”
It was my turn to be flabbergasted.
He let out a triumphant laugh and playfully slapped my shoulder. I, on the other hand, was semi-catatonic. I mean, this wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.
“I assume of course that you know how to use a condom.”
At this point in the conversation I was the one the one at a loss for words.
“Of course! O…oo naman.”
I mean, really! What was I supposed to say!? “Hwow, tito. She was so tight”!? I don’t think so.
Thankfully however that was as far as our conversation went. We finished our drinks and we left but not before he gave me a quick reminder about responsibility, my future, and to not be too hard on my mom.
She read my journal, true but she means well. And besides, she is my mom.
“You’ll do many things when you grow up but a lot of things won’t change and one of those is that your mom will always be your mom.”
That weekend as I got home, my mom greeted me at the door.
“Hello! How was your week?”
Ah, the preliminaries.
“Ah, good! So, did your tito talk to you?”
“Yeah, we had a real good talk” I answered as nonchalant as I could.
“And did he talk to you about…you know?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Ah, that’s good.”
And she left it at that.