By Zippy Saint Thomas

It is that time of the year again—a season when the LGBTQIA+ community is brought to the center of public attention. Voices rise a little louder, intentionally amplified to celebrate identities that were once entirely frowned upon. Pride Month is a time of visibility, remembrance, and joy. Yet beneath the bright colors and festivities lies a deeper conversation: the community continues to face prejudice, exclusion, and the pressure to conform.

I will not attempt to dissect every letter in the ever-growing LGBTQIA+ acronym. Doing so would require thorough research, interviews, and a deeper understanding of each sub-community. The language surrounding identity evolves rapidly, and sometimes even members of the community struggle to keep up. This constant evolution reminds us of the complexity of the human desire to define, understand, and express oneself.

The LGBTQIA+ community has endured generations of prejudice, marginalization, and discrimination. The people who came before us fought tirelessly to create safer spaces where newer generations could express themselves freely and be accepted for who they are. Yet despite these advances, many still live under the shadow of rigid religious doctrines and conservative expectations. For some, the fear of being rejected by their own family remains a daily reality. This is why Pride is not only celebration; it is also a reminder of what still must change.

It is a quiet form of constraint—a noose that slowly tightens as individuals suppress their true identities simply to survive, avoid judgment, or prevent being cast out of their homes.

Yet stepping outside that constraint brings its own vulnerabilities. Coming out is often celebrated as an act of liberation, but it can also introduce new hardships. To be disowned by one’s family is to suddenly face a more difficult version of life, where survival itself becomes a challenge. Judgment does not disappear; it merely changes form. It appears in the cold stares of strangers scanning you from head to toe, in the cruel honesty of children shouting slurs from the street, and in experiences such as catcalling that offer a glimpse into the forms of harassment many women face every day.

Perhaps one of the most painful realizations is that even within spaces designated as safe, the fractures of the outside world often replicate themselves.

Internal discrimination exists within the community. Social media has played a significant role in reinforcing divisions by hyper-categorizing identities. Under the lesbian umbrella, there are lipstick lesbians, soft femmes, masc-presenting lesbians, butch lesbians, and more. Within the gay community, labels such as twink, bear, femme, masc, and down-low have become common identifiers. Similar subcultures exist across other identities within the LGBTQIA+ spectrum.

While these labels can help people find community and self-understanding, they can also become tools of exclusion. Instead of gathering as a collective whole, an already marginalized community sometimes finds itself divided into smaller exclusive groups, quietly communicating, “You can’t sit with us.”

This superficiality feels particularly prominent among gay men. Romance often seems overshadowed by appearance, status, and transactional interactions. Hook-up culture has, in many ways, transformed what could be meaningful connections into temporary encounters. I cannot discuss this without acknowledging my own experiences. At one point in my life, I, too, participated in that culture.

Many of us downloaded apps believing they would help us find connection, only to discover environments that often amplify insecurities. These platforms can be deeply unforgiving, reducing people to their appearances and creating a culture in which self-worth becomes tied to validation from strangers.

People often defend these behaviors by invoking personal preferences. Preferences are natural, but they are not always communicated with kindness or respect. At times, navigating the community can feel like being trapped in a high school social hierarchy filled with cliques, superiority complexes, and self-appointed gatekeepers.

Social media platforms have further romanticized specific relationship dynamics, particularly the idealized “masc and femme” pairing. It appears flawless in carefully curated photos and videos, yet reality rarely mirrors these portrayals. In places like Iloilo, these dynamics often seem less common than social media would suggest.

Media standards have also created narrow definitions of desirability. To be considered feminine often means fitting a specific mold: skinny, fair-skinned, youthful, and frequently East Asian-looking. Masculinity comes with its own rigid expectations. The result is an environment where visibility and desirability are tied to conformity.

Within this system, it can feel as though if you are nobody, you must become something. If you possess neither the appearance nor the social currency deemed valuable, you risk becoming invisible.

Ironically, many of the community’s most visible figures are entertainers—drag performers, comedians, emcees, and artists. They carry joy into public spaces, spreading laughter and positivity while often navigating their own struggles behind the scenes.

The consequences of superficiality extend into relationships. A friend once shared his difficulties finding romantic partners because of the powerful femininity he naturally exudes. His experience made me reflect on how many gay men still struggle with masculinity. The femininity of another man can be intimidating to them, mirroring the same insecurities often criticized in heterosexual spaces.

There seems to be a broader societal discomfort with feminine energy itself—whether expressed by women, gay men, transgender individuals, or anyone who challenges traditional gender expectations. As a result, many people quietly remove romance from their life goals. Some eventually find love, but many settle into roles where they provide entertainment, comfort, and support to others while their own desires remain unmet.

Historically, this was not always the case.

Before colonization, effeminate men and gender-diverse individuals often occupied respected positions within society. Figures such as the Babaylan and Asog held spiritual authority and were regarded as important members of their communities, often standing alongside leaders such as the Datu. Their perceived connection to both masculine and feminine energies granted them unique roles as healers, spiritual practitioners, and cultural custodians.

Understanding this history is essential because it reveals that much of the discrimination experienced today is not indigenous to Filipino culture. Rather, it emerged through centuries of colonial influence and the imposition of foreign religious structures. As discussed in Tracy Mae Ildefonso’s research, From Asog to Bakla: Genealogical Analysis of the Philippine History to Diagnose the Roots of Homophobia, historical attitudes toward gender and sexuality in the Philippines were far more nuanced than many assume.

Today, we live in a society heavily shaped by religious institutions and colonial legacies. Ironically, some spaces that preach compassion and sanctuary continue to treat LGBTQIA+ individuals as outsiders.

This judgment extends beyond sexuality and gender identity. It is particularly evident in the persistent stigma surrounding HIV and AIDS.

I remember seeing a social media post celebrating the thousands who participated in a Pride March. Among the comments was an individual who, despite having graduated from a medical course, responded by mentioning the country’s HIV statistics, followed by a dismissive laugh. The comment was unrelated to the celebration itself and revealed a troubling lack of empathy.

When friends share stories about their relationships and experiences, I always remind them to prioritize their safety. There are clinics that provide free testing, condoms, lubricants, and access to Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis (PrEP). Sexual health should never be a source of shame.

As I often jokingly tell my friends: “Be a hoe, but be a responsible hoe.”

The greater problem lies in the stigma. Many people avoid testing because they fear being seen entering a clinic. In a culture where gossip spreads rapidly, some worry that merely seeking healthcare will lead others to assume they are HIV-positive. Confidentiality is protected by law, yet fear of public scrutiny remains a significant barrier.

At its core, the issue is not simply HIV. It is society’s tendency to treat another person’s private struggles as public entertainment.

If we imagine a version of history untouched by colonial intervention and religious dogma, perhaps Filipino society would have developed differently. Perhaps we would have retained more of the respect and reverence once afforded to gender-diverse individuals.

Instead, many institutions continue to prioritize rigid masculine ideals. Workplaces, leadership structures, and social systems often reward aggression, competition, and dominance while undervaluing qualities associated with empathy, intuition, and care. Anyone who embodies these traits—regardless of gender—frequently finds themselves forced to prove their worth repeatedly.

In psychological terms, Carl Jung described the balance between the Animus and the Anima—the masculine and feminine aspects present within every individual. Yet society often treats these energies as opposing forces rather than complementary ones. The result is an imbalance that disconnects people from themselves and from one another.

People often say that everyone is born equal. Yet equality remains an aspiration rather than a lived reality for many marginalized communities. Those who enjoy social privilege may struggle to recognize the discrimination happening around them because they have never personally experienced it.

Awareness requires looking beyond our own comfort and perspective. It requires removing the veils that separate “us” from “them” and recognizing our shared humanity. To live without conditions. To live without the negotiations in order to fit in whatever mold they’re trying to fit us into.

You do not have to be LGBTQIA+ to understand the weight someone else carries.

You do not have to walk in their shoes to offer compassion.

You simply have to be aware.

You simply have to be human.

Zippy Saint Thomas is a Libyan-born Filipino artist based in Iloilo and a core member of Kikik Kollektive, where he leads the zinemaking team.

His practice explores themes of identity, embodiment, and spirituality. Mingle-ing elements of nature’s whimsy with mysticism and the occult, his work captures the fluid sensuality of the effeminate masculine and the gentle feminine—often characterized by soft, curved, yet contemplative poses and quiet, blank gazes. A profound sense of mystery anchors his visual narrative.

Primarily working in painting, assemblage, and installation, Zippy is driven by an experimental approach to materials, constantly discovering new textures and forms while ensuring the medium remains deeply connected to the artwork’s core meaning.

KIKIK KOLLEKTIVE is an Iloilo-based independent artists’ collective that creates interventions, collaborations, and community-engaged art projects, with an aspiration to uphold local distinction amid global homogeneity. Known for public artworks and relational programs that narrate stories of traditional public markets, children in the aftermath of calamities, land-based Visayan wisdom, and lesser-known Ilonggo freedom fighters, the collective was among the highlighted artist collectives at the 11th Asia Pacific Triennial of Contemporary Art at the Queensland Gallery of Modern Art in 2024.