* Yeah, this "Curious Kids" item in The Conversation deals with something that has puzzled me more and more over the years (as we have seen more and more video from the depths): how come in these deepest of deep sea dives, where the submarine would be crushed like an aluminium can unless it was built to super-strength standards, you see pretty normal looking, non-armour plated fish and crustaceans doodling around? How do their puny bodies operate under such pressure? Seems the answer goes down to the
* The Guardian has a piece on a traditional "third sex" kind of role in the Philippines (similar to that seen in many other cultures):
Bakla is a Tagalog word that denotes the Filipino practice of male cross-dressing, denoting a man that has “feminine” mannerisms, dresses as a “sexy” woman, or identifies as a woman. It is an identity built on performative cultural practice more so than sexuality. Often considered a Filipino third gender, bakla can be either homosexual or heterosexual, and are regarded as one of the most visible LGBTQIA+ cultures in Asia – an intersectional celebration of Asian and queer cultures.I've never made a study of this whole, third sex, cross dressing thing that pops up in various indigenous cultures, but it's curious how it turns up in some but not others. (Also the different status levels that they hold in different cultures.) It's funny how the modern equivalent is just making it big in the entertainment industry. Would Bowie (and glam rockers generally) at their campiest height count as bakla?
The bakla were renowned as community leaders, seen as the traditional rulers who transcended the duality between man and woman. Many early reports from Spanish colonising parties referenced the mystical entities that were “more man than man, and more woman than woman”. Even today, many bakla in the Philippines retain high status as entertainers and media personalities.
When I was eight years old, on my first and only trip to the Philippines, I met my older cousin Norman. He had shoulder-length hair, wore lipstick and eyeliner, and would walk around in heels. His father affectionately called him malambut (Tagalog for “soft”); his siblings called him bading, but he told me he was bakla. He wasn’t an outsider; he was part of the family – my family – and being an eight-year-old who liked to sing karaoke and play dress-up, I didn’t give it a second thought. But on returning to Australia, I told all my friends about Norman and they scoffed – the early seed of masculinity training at play – and when I asked my parents what the word meant, my mum replied, “it just means … bakla”. It didn’t translate directly to English.
Later, I learned that many people problematically mistranslate bakla to “gay” in English. As an identity not tied to sex, the word does not correspond directly to western nomenclature for LGBTQIA+ identities, sitting somewhere between gay, trans and queer. As Filipinos moved to countries such as Australia and the United States, the bakla were mislabelled as part of western gay culture and quickly (physically) sexualised. Even worse, the word can sometimes be heard in Australian playgrounds, used in a derogatory way. When I was younger, we were banned from calling each other “gay”, so the boys accused each other of being “bakla” instead. It was quite confusing to my ears when hearing the word used in a negative way, its meaning truly lost in migration.
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