Heat vs decency

By Noel Galon de Leon

Let’s admit it, we pretend to be shocked by bare skin but secretly we are just uncomfortable with our own contradictions. I saw my neighbor early in the morning, casually topless while hanging laundry like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. It made me pause not because it was scandalous, but because it felt strangely honest in a place obsessed with appearances.

I have been living in this subdivision long enough to notice patterns, and his presence is one of them. He has always been there, discreetly existing in his own rhythm, but only recently did he start shedding his shirt like it was unnecessary baggage. Maybe the heat finally won, or maybe he simply stopped caring about what people might say.

Weekends make it more noticeable, especially Saturdays and Sundays when everyone is home pretending to rest but actually observing each other. There he is, fixing something, moving around, sweating under the sun, choosing comfort over convention. Meanwhile, the rest of us stay inside, fully clothed, silently judging while glued to our electric fans.

It is impossible not to notice him because our units face each other like two reluctant participants in a staring contest. The subdivision is still calm, not fully occupied, so every movement feels amplified and every habit becomes visible. In a way, privacy here is an illusion we all agree to maintain until someone breaks it.

And yet, what exactly is being broken when someone decides to go topless in their own space. The question lingers longer than the image itself, poking at the fragile rules we have constructed around decency. Maybe the discomfort says more about us than it does about him.

We forget that long before subdivisions and gated communities, our ancestors lived in a completely different relationship with their bodies. In pre colonial Philippines, being topless was not an act of rebellion but a practical response to the climate. It was normal, functional, and completely unremarkable.

In regions like the Visayas and the Cordilleras, this practice was not only accepted but expected. Women worked, lived, and moved freely without the burden of excessive clothing. Men displayed their bodies with pride, their tattoos telling stories of bravery, identity, and belonging.

Those tattoos, known as patik, were not just decoration but a living archive etched into skin. They spoke of battles fought, status earned, and lives lived with intensity. Imagine that kind of visibility today, where your body tells your truth instead of hiding it.

Then came the colonizers, bringing with them not just religion but a new set of rules about shame. Spanish missionaries saw bare skin as something sinful, something that needed to be corrected. Covering up became less about comfort and more about conformity.

By the late nineteenth century, clothing transformed into a symbol of morality and conversion. To be “decent” meant to align with imposed standards, to hide what was once natural. It is ironic how something so basic became politicized through fabric.

Now we inherit those values without questioning where they came from. We react instinctively, labeling things as inappropriate without understanding the history behind our reactions. It is like wearing invisible clothes stitched together by colonial memory.

I remember reading a book in college by John Iremil Teodoro that challenged these ideas in a way that stayed with me. His essays were reflective, sharp, and unafraid to confront cultural contradictions. One particular piece struck me harder than I expected.

He pointed out how we are quick to call out indecency in billboards or in people who dress minimally. Yet we rarely question the image of Christ on the cross, nearly naked, displayed in churches we visit without hesitation. The contrast is uncomfortable, almost absurd.

That observation does not aim to disrespect faith but to expose selective sensitivity. Why do we tolerate certain images of the body while condemning others. Who decides which forms of exposure are sacred and which are scandalous.

It forces us to confront the idea that morality is often shaped by context rather than principle. We are not as consistent as we think, and that inconsistency reveals deeper cultural conditioning. Maybe what we call values are just habits we refuse to examine.

Thinking about my neighbor again, I start to see him less as an oddity and more as an unintentional disruptor. He is not making a statement, yet his simple act of being shirtless challenges a deeply ingrained mindset. Sometimes the most ordinary actions are the most provocative.

There is also something subtly liberating about choosing comfort over judgment. In a country where heat is relentless, wearing less makes perfect sense. Yet we endure discomfort just to meet expectations that no one openly agreed upon.

It is almost funny when you think about it, how we suffer in silence just to avoid being talked about. We would rather sweat through layers of clothing than risk being seen as improper. That kind of self policing deserves at least a sarcastic laugh.

But humor aside, there is a serious question underneath all this. How much of our behavior is genuinely ours, and how much is inherited without consent. The answer is not simple, but it is worth exploring.

As I write this, the heat outside is still unforgiving. The air feels heavy, and even the walls seem to radiate warmth. It is the kind of weather that makes you question every piece of clothing you are wearing.

I am grateful I do not have classes today, which gives me time to stay at home and tend to small things like watering plants. There is something grounding about routine tasks, especially in moments of reflection. It keeps the mind from drifting too far while still allowing it to wander.

Standing in the garage, hose in hand, I can feel the same heat my neighbor must be dealing with. Suddenly, his choice feels less strange and more reasonable. Context changes everything when you let it.

Maybe what we need is not more rules about what to wear but more awareness of why we care so much. Judgment often comes from unfamiliarity, and familiarity begins with observation. In that sense, my neighbor has already started a subtle conversation.

This is not about encouraging everyone to go topless tomorrow. It is about questioning the rigidity of our perspectives and allowing space for nuance. Not everything that feels uncomfortable is wrong, and not everything that is familiar is right.

So yes, maghubad tayo, not just literally but metaphorically. Strip away assumptions, inherited shame, and automatic judgments. What remains might surprise us, and maybe even make us a little more honest with ourselves.

***

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and professor at the University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in the Division of Professional Education and at U.P. High School in Iloilo. He is also the secretary of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts – National Committee on Literary Arts.