I became an activist when I was in college.
A poster-making, flag-waving, fist-up while shouting activist.
I went from classroom to classroom encouraging fellow students to join a rally, an organization, a movement.
Afterwards, I drown my thirst with coke, or sprite, or an ice cold glass of Nestea.
I would cut a long strip of craft paper and with a red paint write the words ‘ibagsak’ or ‘imperyalismo’ or ‘tuta’ or ‘yes to a higher education budget’.
Then I would go with my orgmates to Mc Donald’s and eat a mountain of French fries.
On days of rallies, I would go to school earlier than usual and prepare for rally essentials: posters, streamers, a megaphone, flags, and handouts.
But rallies are cruel to my gbx leather shoes, so I opt to wear my chucks and a nice cool shirt.
I join rallies. I watch movies. I want change. I want fries. I seek social justice. I seek those marigold low-cut chucks. I demand a revolution. I demand love.
I am no different from you, and you, and you, and you.
I dream of a good life too, it’s just that I also dream it for other people.
My weird red shirts, my native kerchiefs, my occasional shouting, my plea for change and my minority views do not give anyone the license to put me in a labelled box.
I am more than an activist. I am you, only noisier.