FUNNY ENOUGH, I already know what my friends would say if you asked them to describe me. “She is one of the funniest people I know.” Whether they are friends from elementary, junior high, senior high, or college, they would all say it with the same certainty.
Growing up as a plus-sized queer kid, humor for me began as a means of survival. Because when you do not fit Filipino beauty standards, it often feels like you have to choose between being smart or being funny.
Like many other queer kids, I experienced bullying. I was called names and ridiculed not only in front of my classmates, but also in front of teachers. Some of my classmates would even get physical, crossing boundaries that left me feeling helpless.
In moments like that, bullying was dismissed as “kids being kids.” Yet, when left unaddressed, victims end up carrying wounds that quietly shape how they see themselves and the world around them.
For me, joking about my traumas has become second nature. I learned to laugh at my insecurities before anyone else could, tossing out self-deprecating jokes—convincing myself they would be less offensive if it came from me. But, surprisingly, sometimes, it hurts even more.
Another not-so-funny observation is that my story is not unique—it is shared by queers.
Now that I am in college, it is often queer individuals with whom I exchange the sharpest banter. We tease, we joke, we riff off each other constantly. When we are put on the spot, there is an unspoken pressure and perceived obligation to be funny.
Whether it’s in Filipino films that feature stereotypically funny queer characters who are accessories to the main cast, or in many friend groups that often have a humorous “gay” friend who keeps everyone laughing, queer individuals are often required to perform comedy just to be seen, liked, or included.
This pattern extends to the Philippine entertainment scene, as many of the recognizable and influential comedians in the country are queer, with loud personalities and talent to keep the room alive. Although they are celebrated, the larger truth remains: humor is a shield against homophobia and a survival strategy.
Behind the smiles, many queer individuals are often expected to be funny. Sometimes, it becomes the only way to be liked, softening society’s cruelty towards them. Humor, for many of us, becomes more than a personality trait—it becomes a coping mechanism.
Perhaps this is why the famous saying goes, “The funniest people are the ones who hurt the most.” All the class clowns, the gays, even the mga babaeng bakla—the ones who keep trying to make people laugh while carrying stories, wounds, and struggles—often go unnoticed for how much they are really hurting.
Despite everything, another truth that brings a smile to me is that there have been undeniable strides in the Philippines and around the world. Although there is still progress to be made, queer individuals are gaining visibility, representation, and recognition—shaping culture, challenging injustices, and celebrating authenticity, one joke at a time.
Our stories, feelings, and presence as queers are enough, and it is okay to let ourselves be seen exactly as we are—vulnerable, messy, real, funny or not.
Zaki is a BS Psychology student of the Ateneo de Manila University, set to graduate in 2026. With a passion for storytelling, she aspires to be a bold writer who amplifies marginalized voices, using intentional and truthful narratives to advance trans visibility, celebrate authenticity, and promote equity.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication
