THE writer with two of the “pushy” females in his life.

I HAVE three things in common with former president and certified macho man Joseph ‘Erap’ Estrada: the same birthday, facial hair, and the constant presence of women. But while he may believe being constantly around women is a good thing and could be a much needed boost to one’s masculinity, it’s a situation I have ambivalent feelings about.

Well, I probably won’t have that dilemma if we were talking in terms of a harem, where all the world is made to revolve around one truly lucky guy, the center of attention of sensual ladies (wives and servants) whose job it is to always ensure his personal satisfaction. But a harem — at least, as far as Western writings imagined it to be — is so archaic an arrangement, and chauvinistic at that. Besides I’m no royal, blue-blooded heir of a sultan. My only dubious link to royalty is the name I was christened with, one I share with my dearly departed father and two younger brothers: that of a Macedonian hunk of a conqueror and emperor who was also said to have loved males more passionately than his wives. Hmmm …

But I digress. As I was saying, I’m surrounded by females round the clock, every single day of my chaotic life, and most times I feel like I’m in an unenviable position. Over at our humble Tandang Sora abode, members of the female species outnumber me three to one: my wife Mira and our two daughters, Marlee, 10, and Kaya, five. At work, I am the only male employee in an office that has always suffered from gender imbalance since it was set up almost two decades ago. In fact, it was only when I joined the PCIJ back in 1994 that the center’s male staff population swelled to a high of three. But the number would soon dwindle back to two when Howie Severino left in 1997 to join GMA-7 to venture into broadcast journalism, and to just my solitary self late last year when we had to let go of our driver-messenger.

I say unenviable because I haven’t been dealing with ordinary females here. My colleagues at the PCIJ, past and present, are strong and aggressive women who do not subscribe to the myth of male superiority. That is why I’ve always maintained that the women’s liberation movement had long raised the flag of victory in its struggle for gender equality over at the Center.

So it is at home with Mira and already to some extent our two daughters, who both exhibited a discomfortingly mean streak at an early age by yelling “Ayoko sa ‘yo! (I don’t like you!)” whenever they woke up in the morning and the first thing they saw was me. (Who wouldn’t?)

That morning ritual is already a thing of the past now that they’ve grown into adorable young girls. But, like their mother, they surely know how to demand my attention, albeit in contrasting ways. Marlee often resorts to silent, irritating tantrums, while Kaya is the screaming banshee foreboding my impending doom should I fail to comprehend or miss out on something she said.

Not that I’m really complaining about the “pushy” females in my life. My personal and professional relationships with them, I do acknowledge, have only made me strive to become a better man, or person. But I think it helped that I was also somehow brought up as a “soft” man — the ’90s term for males trying to get in touch with their sensitive side.

AS THE second child in a brood of six (three girls and three boys) and the eldest among the boys, I assumed more responsibilities compared to my sisters, something not quite typical of a Filipino family. In our household, my sisters had it easy as they were confined only to the house to perform domestic chores. It was I who became my hardworking mother’s trusted assistant, who helped her tend our grocery store, dutifully ran errands for her, and even did the marketing. By the time I was just 11 or 12 years old, I already knew my way around the Divisoria market where we bought most of the goods we sold. I would wake up early to open the store, which was located in a neighborhood far from where we stayed, and attend to the morning sales before I went to my high school classes in the afternoon. After school, I would go straight to the store and mind the shop until it closed at 10 or 11 p.m.

Because both our parents worked, it was also not strange for my siblings and I to have learned to cope by ourselves. That’s how I acquired the skills of doing the laundry and ironing the clothes. Cooking came to me much later, although I believe it’s in my genes, an inheritance from my father who was quite a fantastic conjurer of gastronomical surprises.

These days, my part in the division of labor at home — given that we’ve renounced the need for a house help — consists mainly of washing the dishes, ironing the clothes, and bringing Kaya to her preschool (same as with Marlee when she was that age). Cooking rice and brewing our morning coffee are also part of my daily to-do list. I haven’t been able to whip up dishes as often as I’d like to but I make do occasionally. Meanwhile, domicile cleaning and maintenance, like child-rearing, is a partnership arrangement.

I also remember defying my father, a macho in the mold of Erap, who wanted me to engage a boy of my age in a fistfight because he had teased and made my younger sister cry. But it was just not in my nature to resort to a contest of valiant testosterones to resolve matters. Unfortunately, in those days, such hesitance was sure to mark one as being effeminate or even homosexual — something my father used to bring up to challenge my “manliness.” But he always ended up frustrated, and I kept all the bones in my hands unbroken (the better to type out stories, mop the floor, and stir the stew).

Perhaps my elementary years in an exclusive girls’ school — the Immaculate Conception Academy of Manila admitted boys from kindergarten up to Grade IV — somehow prepared me as well for my now predominantly female world of work and family. So when I reached college, societal change-seekers who at the same time question the culturally imposed concept that males are the superior gender appealed to me more.

WITHOUT THE baggage of a patriarchal mindset, it was therefore not difficult for me to shun men’s mythical superiority over women both at home and in the workplace. Decision-making is a shared responsibility between me and Mira in our partnership as husband and wife, as well as father and mother to our two daughters. Never did it bother me that my superiors at the PCIJ were females, even if they were more aggressive, more driven and competitive, some more adept at high-level mathematical abstractions than most men, including myself.

Not that I am an underachieving PCIJ staff (I’ve had my modest share of recognitions as one). But the old cultural assumptions of male superiority are simply out of touch with present-day realities. It has to be acknowledged that women, particularly in this day and age, can be as capable as men, or even better. In the same way that men can be as sensitive or nurturing as women, or probably even better.

It’s not surprising that to this day male superiority is still explained away as something natural, alluding to the differences between men and women that favor masculine attributes and denigrate the feminine. But studies have argued that men and women are not necessarily different as the differences rather vary from individual to individual. Whatever differences there are, researches have shown, are not absolute (save for the sex organs) and have more to do with biology. Men tend to be more aggressive because they generally have larger, stronger muscles. With this biological structure comes more muscle tension, which needs to be released in terms of activity. In comparison, female sensitivity and responsiveness to human situations are thought of as built-in feminine characteristics because they arise from this apparent absence of hormone and muscle tension that explains aggressiveness in men.

What women lack in aggressive behavior, they are said to compensate with the ability to engage in sustained activity — a behavior rooted in their distinct biological rhythms that in turn originated from the prehistoric division of labor that assigned the hunting task to men and the gathering to women. That probably explains the workaholic bent among women, particularly as I’ve been witness to at the PCIJ, and, well, maybe the “slave-driving” when they become bosses.

This just goes to show that even “enlightened” men still encounter rough sailing in the seas of estrogen that they have to navigate every day. In the main, it’s less stressful if you just roll along with the “givens” that have to do with other biological differences. Like when they have their monthly periods and the lunar influence is strongest, and so you just become their object of hate for no apparent reason (at least to me). There is also the midlife/menopausal phase to prepare for, although we’re now being told men go through menopause as well, and suffer midlife crises of their own.

I will not deny though that there were instances in the past when I felt a sense of being left out simply because I am male. Added to the fact that I was not part of the power structure then, I often wound up blissfully uninformed and uninvolved in whatever was being cooked up by the cabal of women around me. Even today, it is inevitable that I will get outvoted in many instances (yes, doing this piece was one of those). Thankfully, my collection of females at home gang up on me more to tease me, like exchanging whispers in my presence because they know I resent that.

Anyway, when all seems too unbearable in the land of women, there are enduring standards for male behavior that men can always resort to: strength and silence. I, however, take more to the latter. Not because I am a stereotypical man of few words. It’s just that women find it annoying.

WHAT’S in the Filipino male’s mind? What is he looking for in a partner? Wonder no more. We found out that the Filipino male likes his woman mabait, which is the generic term for kind, which really means agreeable. Or quiet? Timid? Pinoys also like their women “maganda (beautiful),” which means “maputi (fair-skinned),” “matangkad (tall),” and “payat (slim).”

Let’s watch the video, and find out who likes `em “marunong sa bahay (good in household chores),” “malinis sa katawan (hygienic),” conservative, “tahimik (quiet),” and “magaling sumayaw (good dancer).”

Producer: Lala Ordenes-Cascolan
Video editor: Francis Ventura

(Background music downloaded from Isis Manila’s website; “Babae Ka (You Are Woman)” music and lyrics by Susan Fernandez)

In this issue

• Are we there yet?
• Woman of many firsts
• Tracking the women’s journey
• Favored as boys, disadvantaged as men
• The man-child as family head
• Rediscovering daddy
• A feminine challenge
• Women of the house
• Video: Ang tipo kong babae
• I am woe, man

It is the human barako, however, who is obviously the most fascinating, because he is at once simple and complex. In a province known to produce the export-quality balisong (fan knife), where every Batangueño is expected to be armed and efficient in the uses of the weapon made only in Batangas, the barako prefers the gun to protect himself and his loved ones.

In the old days, before the permit to carry guns was heavily enforced, the barako would never leave home without his .45 sticking out of the waistband of his pants, pulling his karsonsilyo or undershorts down. He must be prepared, even with his undershorts down, to fight back if someone throws a challenge, a balisong, or even a bullet (through a gun barrel of course) at him. This also means that he should be a good shot, a sharp shooter if necessary, because to stay alive and keep his image as a barako or strongman, he would need to keep shooting until his enemy falls or runs away. A true barako also fights his enemy (or enemies) in the open, and face to face.

In the book Batangas Forged in Fire, which features the province’s most prominent families, among other things, a blueblood, Teodoro Kalaw (husband of former senator Eva Estrada-Kalaw) is photographed standing straight in the barako pose, ready to fire the revolver on his right hand, even as he totes his coat on his left arm. Such was the way of the elite barako: classy, but still deadly.

Barakos are also found in the pages of the nation’s history, such as the known man of action, Gen. Miguel Malvar, the last military leader to surrender to the Americans. Even a Batangueno who couldn’t walk showed kabarakuhan (bravery) in his own way. Although disabled by poliomyelitis, Apolinario Mabini was a man of thought who rose to supremacy as the brains behind the revolution and the first Philippine Republic.

Yet despite the show of virility and the stance of masculinity, the feared strongman known for his kills will often soften or tone down when faced with the woman who captured his heart. A barako is not rude toward the woman he loves. He is in fact gentle toward her and will do everything in his power to make his special woman feel important, even if it means carrying her books or pink, flowery handbag in public and ignoring the hoots of hecklers in the streets, although he is sure to confront them later when she is not around.

The barako is also loyal to his family. Although conflicts may arise between barako brothers and fathers, they all unite and fight for each other when trouble from outside forces threaten their family’s pride, honor, and existence. In many instances, the barako will ignore tempting offers of dubious fortune in order to make sure his family’s name remains untarnished. Indeed, the real barako would rather be poor than live with shame, just as he would rather die fighting than live in fear.

And fight the barakos did during World War II, ambushing and killing many Japanese soldiers. In retaliation, the Japanese massacred the city’s population, taking the lives of 18,000 of its 25,000 residents. Lipa City was also razed to the ground, with only five houses out of hundreds of old mansions left standing afterward.

It was probably a sight that could have made anyone cry, but most probably not a barako, who is the sort of male who believes he is never ever supposed to shed a single tear, even during the wake of his own father, even in the face of their own death. The tears from the known strongmen, therefore, could mean only two things: One is that they are crocodile tears, designed to invoke pity. The other is that they belong to a fake barako.

Barakos can be bullheaded. After the peacetime elections of 1949, a group of barakos from wealthy families took to hills at the defeat of their presidential bet, Jose P. Laurel, whom they believed was cheated. Backed by formidable gun power, they were ready to fight the government head on. Only the messengers sent by their fellow blueblood barakos who wanted peace were able to stop the planned bloodbath.

Some towns and cities in the province have more barakos than the others. Among them is the town of San Juan, in the easternmost part of Batangas, that also known for its coconut wine or lambanog.

Batangas City also once had a prominent barako, who by his skill and probably, by luck, was able to live long enough to run for public office and win. This barako made sure the city enjoyed peace and order. When he died, Batangueños praised him for his leadership. Now it is his nephew who sits behind his former desk.

Youngsters who aspire to be barakos or want political clout someday are known as barakitos. These young ones are often seen with the barakos, who take them under their wing as alagang barako (novice barakos). Already quite rowdy, barakitos oftentimes get bolder during election season.

At present, however, Batangueños themselves believe there are only a few barakos left walking the streets of the province. The decrease in the barako population could probably be due to the fact that in their obsession to be supremo de barakos, most of them have killed each other (matira ang matibay or only the bravest remains standing); in worst cases, the killing could have included members of each other’s family (ubusan ng lahi). Many barakos, after all, have failed to realize the difference between pride and foolishness.

I FEEL PRETTY. Filipino men are splurging on looking — and feeling — good. [photos by Jose Enrique Soriano]

I DON’T generally think of myself as vain, but then there’s this incident I remember from high school: some friends and I were assembled at my house so that we could all ride together to a party. As we were getting dressed in our Spandau Ballet-inspired finery (then the height of fashion), one of the barkada produced, from out of the depths of his bag, a can of mousse, which none of us hapless males had ever seen or even heard of before. Naturally, we all had to squirt some into our hands and smear it on our hair. Not knowing that we were then supposed to blow-dry or otherwise style it, we left the house feeling snazzy, while looking pretty much the same as we had prior to applying the mousse — at most, our hair was a little damper, vaguely crispy in texture, and certainly stickier than before. But we felt utterly transformed. We felt guapo.

These days (long past high school, thanks), I don’t exactly wander around feeling guapo, but according to a survey by global research firm Synovate last year, a good many Filipino males do — 48 percent of us, in fact. This is just a slightly lower percentage than males in the United States at 53 percent, and considerably higher than our Asian neighbors: 25 percent of Singaporean men think they’re sexy, and only 12 percent of guys from Hong Kong.

Moreover, while less than half of us (which is already a significant figure) think that we’re God’s gift to Pinays, a whopping 84 percent of Filipinos rate their looks as “quite” or “very” important to them. Assuming that the survey is accurate, this means, statistically speaking, that there is no male racial group on earth vainer than Filipino men. And, to my shock, I am one of them.

I have the uncomfortable feeling that female readers will not be surprised to learn that Pinoys are full of themselves. I myself was astounded by these figures, and I don’t think my wife has stopped laughing yet.

If you think about it, really, the evidence is all around us, and has been for decades. Way before the term “metrosexual” was ever coined (in 1994, by British journalist Mark Simpson, in case you’re interested), Filipino businessmen were going around toting clutch bags — which I’m told are meant to hold guns or money, but which also frequently contain combs and the occasional small mirror. Your average Pinoy traffic cop, while likely to sport an enormous gut that completely engulfs his regulation belt, is just as likely to brandish gleaming, rosy-hued, meticulously manicured fingernails. And practically everyone has at least one uncle or other older male relative who keeps his hair so slickly brilliantined that everyone else can conveniently fix his or her own hair by merely glancing at its mirror-like surface.

Those are just what we’ll call the “traditional” examples. Among the younger set, I recall a time when you couldn’t walk into a classroom of boys without nearly asphyxiating on the overwhelming communal scent of Drakkar cologne. Nowadays the choice of fragrance is more varied, but the rabidly enthusiastic application of cologne, aftershave, or that hybrid substance strangely labeled as “deo-cologne” remains constant. The Synovate survey tells us that Filipino men bathe an average of 1.5 times a day. (I’m not really sure how one takes half a bath, but I’m told by informed sources that such regular male hygiene is a source of relief and delight for Filipino women.) Since the 1970s, the majority of Philippine beauty salons have become “unisex,” resulting in a large and growing number of young men who have never even set foot in a barber shop, which means that most of us go to salons — every three weeks or so, according to salon magnate Ricky Reyes, “for pampering.”

Not that barbershops themselves are exactly bastions of simplicity and pure functionality anymore. High-end ones offer “personal care” services ranging from facials to foot scrubs to ear cleaning. (Does ear cleaning count as vanity?) Men also go to massage parlors — real ones, not quote-unquote massage parlors — not just to soothe their tired muscles, but often for skin-improving treatments like mud baths and herbal wraps. And speaking of skin treatments, more and more cosmetics companies are coming out with “just for men” lines of grooming products, including face scrubs, lotions, and astringents. What’s significant is that more and more Pinoy men are actually buying them: just 10 years ago, men accounted for only 10 percent of the total Philippine beauty care buying public. That figure has now mushroomed to 40 percent, meaning that there are nearly equal numbers of Pinoys and Pinays out there, snapping up creams and cleansers.

Even cosmetic surgery has become not just acceptable, but desirable for many Filipino men — from standard dermatology for simple problems like acne, to unapologetic vanity procedures such as liposuction and “age-defying” Botox injections. Dr. Vicky Belo of the popular Belo Medical Clinic confirms, “Before, (men) only accounted for one-fourth of my total clientele. Now they are about one-third.” It’s gotten to the point where “Who’s your derma?” is a topic that can actually enjoy lengthy discussion time in a man-to-man conversation, and surgical treatment has become something of a mark of status in Philippine showbiz. Actors Albert Martinez and John Lloyd Cruz, as well as singer Janno Gibbs, among others, readily (and proudly!) admit to being regular clients at the Belo Medical Clinic.

CAN ALL this male vanity be laid at the door of celebrities like these and metrosexual poster boy David Beckham? Apparently not. For one thing, as I mentioned earlier, the Filipino trait of being vanidoso well predates Becks and his ilk. Besides, a metrosexual, by definition, is “a male who has a strong aesthetic sense and spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance.” While it seems that we Pinoys certainly do make the time and shell out the cash for our looks, we don’t always have enough of an aesthetic sense to know what we’re doing… unless there actually is a segment of the female populace I don’t know about that really does swoon over pink, manicured fingernails on a man. I can’t be sure there isn’t, having never tried the look myself.

As for why we’re willing to spend so much time and money, it may, surprisingly, be a product of social and economic factors. During the U.S. recession, it was observed that lipstick sales shot up, only to taper down again once the recession was over. Consistent repetition of this phenomenon led economists to conclude that, when consumers feel less than confident about the future, they tend to purchase small, comforting indulgences such as lipstick rather than splurging on larger items like appliances and electronic gadgets. Correspondingly, Ricky Reyes has noted that more customers flocked to salons during the 1997 economic crisis in the Philippines, turning to relatively low-priced services like haircuts in order to make themselves feel better in an unstable living environment.

While the purchase of lipstick per se may not exactly be applicable (so far!) to the Filipino male, we can obviously draw a corollary with your average Pinoy, who might be understandably reluctant to buy, say, a flat-screen TV in a country where coup d’etat rumors circulate at least twice a year. Instead, he might choose to spend his money on his appearance, perhaps subconsciously reasoning that his shiny, bouncy hair, glowing, healthy skin, and, yes, tidy pink nails are all conveniently portable in the event that he should need to duck and run for cover. And these are straight guys we’re talking about here.

According to Noel Manucom, head of planning and strategy at Splash cosmetics, the quest for beauty may also be perceived as a quest for social equality. “Filipinos, especially those in the C and D (classes), are still influenced by their colonial mentality that white skin and a tall nose are what those in high society have,” Manucom says. “They may not be able to afford to have their nose done, but the desire to have a fairer skin can be met by buying…products.”

In fact, the double-digit growth in skin care popularity among Filipino males over the last six years is largely attributable to skin-whitening formulas. Pinoys are still devoted to hair care products and fragrance above anything else — with growing interest in bath washes, oral hygiene, and weight loss or gain — yet skin care is acknowledged to be the main fuel of the Philippine beauty industry. This has led to some very disturbing (to me, at least) TV ads, particularly the one where a twenty-something young man testifies, with evident smugness, that his male friends have been telling him, “Pare, pumuputi ka yata, ah (Man, you look fairer)!”

NOW PERSONALLY, I have never had a verbal exchange like that with any of my friends, male or female. But I am beginning to dread that I just might someday. Not that I use whitening products, but, given the evidence from that time in high school up to the present, it seems irrefutable that I am, contrary to my previous belief, vain.

I visit my barber in Greenhills once a week — and while this does, indeed, occur at a barbershop, I not only have my head shaved and my beard and moustache trimmed, I have my feet tended to, as well. When I feel particularly filthy, I have a facial. Once in a while, my barber takes it upon himself to shape my eyebrows with a razor — I’m still not sure I approve of this, but I’ve never stopped him, either. And that’s not all my barbershop offers. I can opt for an Iontophoresis, Deep Laser Cleaning, Skin Bleaching, Skin Whitening, Underarm Whitening, Wart Removal, Paraffin Waxing, Hair Dyeing, Hair Rebonding, something called “Kilay,” and a host of other services I never thought would be found in a bastion of manliness.

These days, most women will tell you that they don’t necessarily pamper and primp in order to please men; they do it to please themselves. Most vain men, I think, will tell you exactly the opposite: we like to look good because women like men who look good. Because when all is said and done about socio economic factors, media proliferation, and all that, what we Pinoy peacocks really have in common, before anything else, is that we are romantics.

So what I’m saying is, when you get right down to it, Filipino male vanity probably stems from one unifying cultural imperative: to woo women (or, well, men, depending on your gender preference). Even women we’re already married to, women we have no actual romantic or sexual interest in, women we know we don’t have a chance in hell of even speaking to at all. It’s not just to get someone into bed (not that we’d mind); it’s to merit, at the very least, that look in a woman’s eye that says, “You know, that guy’s not bad.” Because this is what we’re thinking (well, let’s just say we’re a little more visceral about it) when we look at women all the time. And it’s simply nice to have the positive appraisal reciprocated once in a while.

Therefore, ladies, when you see men like me preening or looking bewildered yet grimly determined in the facial cleanser aisle of your favorite personal care store, remember that we’re most likely doing it, ultimately, for you.

Now will you please stop laughing?

Dean Francis Alfar is a husband, father, playwright, fictionist, comic book creator and businessman. He is a 7-time Don Carlos Palanca Awardee,recipient of the National Book Award, and an internationally published author. His nails are never ever pink.

Alfar’s article included quotes from various sources, including Newsbreak’s “The Business of Beauty” article from its December 2003 issue.

MISSING MOMMY. Macoy Leyba has learned to cook, take care of the children, and balance the family budget, but he still misses his wife everyday. [photos by Alecks P. Pabico]

AS THE youngest of the three Leyba children, McLauren gets pampered in the manner all bunso are in a Filipino family, including being able to share bedspace with his parents. And up until three years ago, bedtime meant going through a peculiar ritual to help induce him to sleep: snuggling against his mother and rubbing one of her ears, a soporific massage that she would also give him.

McLauren — or Butchoy as he is fondly called — didn’t exactly outgrow the ritual. It’s just that his mother has been working abroad for the last three years, and the nine-year-old has since been cuddling up to his father at bedtime instead. And while Maximino ‘Macoy’ Leyba loves hugging his young son back — he has balked at performing the ear-caressing routine the boy and his mother liked doing.

But everything else that wife Florence would be doing around the house Macoy has taken on without complaint, from looking after the children to cooking the meals, to doing the laundry and figuring out the household budget. It’s a setup that may be hard to imagine in a country of swaggering macho men, but in this era of large-scale transnational female labor migration, even certified barakos (toughies) are being forced to play nanay (mothers), albeit in varying degrees.

There are towns upon towns across the Philippines like Mabini in Batangas, where 12 percent of the population are OFWs, most of whom are women employed as domestic workers in Italy. In 2002, seven in 10 of all newly hired OFWs were female, according to the Philippine Overseas Employment Administration (POEA). The result: many more households where the man of the house wears an apron and wields a broom.

Trust the Filipino’s practicality that allows such reversal of gender roles without necessarily resulting in the emasculation of the Pinoy macho. In her book Remaking Masculinities, sociologist Alicia Pingol studies the gender dynamics in Ilocano families with migrant wives and stay-at-home husbands. She points to the shifting definitions of masculinity that somehow lessen the threat to Pinoy manhood when husbands are forced to assume the role of caregiver for the sake of the family’s finances.

The new masculine image, says Pingol, now comes in a variety of forms, from efficiently managing their wives’ remittances to remaining loyal spouses, to attending to their children’s needs. Interestingly, another new mark of masculinity, according to Pingol, is the dogged determination of many of the men to find ways to contribute economically to the family income so as not to become too dependent on their wives’ earnings.

Danilo ‘Tatay Danny’ Guce, for example, did not stop being a port worker when wife Fidela went to Italy in 1987 to become a domestic helper, even though his earnings were nothing compared to what she was getting. “We had huge debts that we couldn’t pay fast enough with my wife’s salary,” he explains. “I kept working so that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about where we were going to find the money to feed ourselves.”

Now retired at 60, Tatay Danny tends a small backyard vegetable garden in Mabini. He intends to sell the produce to earn as additional income, or if not, for his family’s own consumption. He has in his care three grandchildren whose parents are also working in Italy.

IN BACOOR, Macoy is thinking of reopening the small store he used to run beside their house so he can contribute to the family coffers. As if he didn’t already have his hands full managing the household. Actually, the reason why he closed his shop was because his household tasks kept getting in the way. But Macoy now says he has gotten the hang of it after doing the same routine day after day for the last three years.

At least now he no longer worries too much about the eldest child Reiner, who is 20 and a recent computer engineering graduate. “He eats by himself and then goes off,” says Macoy. But there’s still Butchoy and Jam, the middle child and only daughter. Largely because of them, Macoy’s daily schedule still begins early in the morning. He wakes up at around five o’clock to prepare breakfast for Jam, who has to leave for school at seven. By 9:30, he is back in front of the stove cooking for Butchoy. Then he bathes and dresses up the boy in time for classes that start at 10.

Macoy learned to cook in Saudi Arabia, when he was assigned to oversee his company’s operations in Tabuk near the Jordan border. At the time he was a supervisor at a transport firm. Florence and the children were also in Saudi, but whenever Macoy was in Tabuk, he was pretty much left to his own devices. Sometimes he had to bring Butchoy, then a toddler, with him to Tabuk, and he would call Florence long-distance to get specific instructions on how to cook dishes like tinola. He hasn’t dispensed with the practice, though it is now his mother-in-law whom he often consults about recipes.

After the children have left for school, Macoy does the marketing. He says it’s more convenient to do that late in the morning, as there are fewer buyers and haggling for lower prices becomes a breeze.

Work slackens a bit in the early afternoon until two o’clock, when Jam returns from school. That’s the time Macoy washes and iron clothes, taking care to do the children’s uniforms first.

But it’s budgeting Florence’s remittances that often leaves the lanky Macoy exhausted. In the past, they used to allocate P20,000 for their monthly expenses — mainly food, payment of utilities, and the children’s daily school allowances. Now that amount is no longer sufficient. Confides Macoy: “It’s so hard to budget. There are so many school projects. Whenever the two younger children ask for money, my budget is ruined. My daughter says she needs shoes, but she ends up also buying a pair of pants. It’s difficult to say no.”

Actually, he says, life hasn’t been easy for him since he became Mr. Mom. “I admit it,” he says. “It’s hard for the man to become the mother. If you think about it, it’s a very heavy burden. Of course fathers can take care of their children. But I can’t do everything a mother does.”

So far, though, the kids aren’t complaining — even Butchoy, who is quite attached to Florence. Says the 45-year-old Macoy: “He’s my bedtime companion. Whenever he hugs me, I remember his mother. Because he should be hugging her. I ask him sometimes, ‘So Butchoy, is it okay that your mommy’s not here, and you’ve had to hug just me?’ And he says it’s okay.”

THE MASSIVE exodus of women — especially mothers and wives — has raised much concern about the stability of the family and the welfare of the children left behind. Mothers, after all, are acknowledged as the ilaw ng tahanan (light of the home) to complement fathers, who are the haligi ng tahanan (pillar of the home). As such, they tend to hold the family together better than the fathers. Studies have likewise shown that families have done well despite the absence of men because of the women who have taken up the slack.

Any change in the role and status of women, since they are more identified with family and domestic concerns, tends to affect the family more than that of men, who experience similar changes. There is also the perception that men cannot fully substitute for the absent mothers, however willing the husbands are to assume the roles of their migrant wives. Yet even if Macoy himself says he cannot be the kind of mother Florence is, his wife is all praises for the man whom she describes as having been “bossy” when they were just starting their family in Saudi Arabia.

A registered nurse, Florence has resumed work with the King Abdulaziz University Hospital in Jeddah, where she was last employed for eight years until December 2001, when she resolved to come home for good. She had been determined to focus on the growing children, whom the couple had sent back to the Philippines to study while they stayed behind to work in Saudi. Her decision to return to Jeddah several months later was painful for the family, but it had to be made because their savings were fast being depleted.

Given her profession, it was easier and it made more financial sense for Florence to return to the oil-rich kingdom. Macoy had abruptly left his job after attending his father’s wake and burial in 2002, and he opted to stay in the Philippines to mind the children, as well as manage the small business they were starting then, when Florence decided to go back to Jeddah. “And things just didn’t feel safe here back then,” explains Macoy. “Houses were. being burgled in this subdivision. In Saudi, all you’d hear were news about massacres. You couldn’t have any peace of mind.”

Their business venture failed, but Macoy is still keeping house — with little help from anyone else. This has set him apart from many other Filipino men with migrant wives. More often than not, the husband who has been left behind delegates many of the household tasks to female relatives, sometimes even to the eldest daughter.

This refusal to take the “second shift,” which consists of family and household chores that husbands and wives need to do after completing their regular day’s paid work (the first shift), is neither new nor unique to Filipino men. U.S. sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild popularized the phrase in 1989, using it as title for her book in which she observed how men were not spending much more time taking care of the needs at home even as women were spending more and more time at work. Here in the Philippines, the extended family has made it all the more possible for men with migrant wives to pass on some or all of the household chores to willing female relatives.

FOR SURE the traditional notions of housework and child care as “feminine” also have something to do with many of the men’s reluctance to play mother to the hilt like Macoy. Marcelino Abu, for example, insists that cleaning, cooking, and caring for the children are activities that fall under the domain of women. That thinking could have made things complicated for him had his grownup daughter not been around to manage his household while his wife Yolanda works as a maid in Italy. Marcelino, 49, also says his work as a kagawad (barangay council member) already keeps him very busy. “I hang the clothes to dry, but I don’t do any washing,” he says cheerily. “I’d be ashamed to be seen doing that by my neighbors.”

Leandro Jusi, the barangay captain in Marcelino’s neighborhood in Mabini, says that with his wife also working in Italy, he gets by with the help of a niece who takes care of his three children, as well as his grandmother and a maid. The 43-year-old kapitan, who goes around the barangay with silver bracelets jangling on his wrists and the latest Samsung cell phone hanging around his neck, says he can’t cook anything beyond rice.

“We live near my parents anyway,” says Leandro, who takes on seasonal house construction jobs as a foreman. “Sometimes that’s where we eat.”

Because their wives work in Italy, Mabini men like Kapitan Leandro, Kagawad Marcelino, and Tatay Danny have grown used to being left on their own for long stretches of time. Unlike their counterparts in Hong Kong, Filipina maids in Italy are often not covered by contracts, many of them having entered that country as illegal immigrants. To legitimize their stay, they have to wait for the processing of their papers before they can come home for a vacation. Some take five years to return, as in the case of Leandro’s wife Irene, while others, to further save up, rarely go on holiday.

Since she left for Italy 16 years ago, Yolanda Abu has returned home only twice. “I guess she doesn’t make much,” says Marcelino with some sadness. “Because there are many here who are also maids but have even been able to build big new houses.”

He says he has never asked his wife how much she makes. “Money arrives every month and that’s that,” he says. “Sometimes the amount reaches P20,000 and I divide that up among our children.”

The kagawad is not the only husband in Mabini who claims to be clueless about his wife’s earnings. So do Tatay Danny and Kapitan Leandro, who has even relegated the handling of his wife’s remittances to his sister-in-law. “It’s better to have her sister handle her money,” says the kapitan. “I just might squander it. After all, I do play tong-its (a card game) sometimes.”

Marcelino also admits to occasional gambling and drinking with his friends, but he says he does not use his wife’s remittances for things other than what these are supposed to be for. “You can’t take away the vices because we’re men,” he says. “But I have never spent her earnings on things like that.”

BUT PERHAPS the women cannot fault the men for looking for something to occupy themselves with. Small-time gambling may in fact be among the more benign pastimes. According to Pingol, the wives’ prolonged absences have forced many of the men to confront their sexual needs in various ways. In Marcelino’s neighborhood, a corner store with a billiards table has become the favorite hangout of husbands with wives abroad. For the more adventurous, yet another diversion is venturing elsewhere for paid sex.

“You can’t discount that especially among the lonely,” says Leandro. “It happens from time to time, especially when one is out with male friends. It would be a lie to say it doesn’t.”

At other times, jokes provide a veiled expression of the extreme loneliness that they feel for their wives — just like the kapitan‘s banter that his wife should be more worried that he could fall for another instead of him getting concerned that she would find someone else.

In Cavite, fulltime househusband Macoy also admits to occasionally drinking at home, either alone or with friends. At one point, he even agreed to become a board member of the village association just so he could better endure the long separation from his wife. But that meant some of his time was being diverted away from the house, which Florence took issue with, as she saw it as less time devoted to the children. Macoy doesn’t deny that, but since a new set of officers has been elected, he is no longer part of the board and is back full throttle at home — and missing Florence.

“I think of her every day, she is never out of my mind,” he confesses. “Sometimes the children see me staring into space, and it’s because I’m thinking of her. I’d ask them, ‘I wonder if your mommy has already eaten?’ I keep wondering if she’s still at work, if she has gone home, if she is safe.”

There’s no doubt Florence also wants to be home with her family. She was here recently for a month-long vacation, and could barely tear herself away from them when it was time for her to leave. She says her dream had always been to be a fulltime housewife: adding, “I’ve been abroad for so many years, I just want to wake up in the morning and go to the market, cook for my family, and serve them.” For the moment, though, it is Macoy who is doing that, and without her by his side.