This piece contains blunt descriptions of offensive speech. If that’s a trigger, skip it. If it’s a mirror, adjust accordingly.
A quick hello at an open-front bar turned into a slow-motion wreck: leering, crude “jokes,” shots at people collecting aid, a slur debate, and one line that nearly had me wanting to plant a vertical butt stroke with my cane in a man’s face. I didn’t—but here’s what happened and what I learned.
Puerto Galera Morning
I’d just finished an oceanside breakfast at one of my favorite Filipino restaurants with my landlady and started walking up the street to a DIY to buy a tool for a home repair. Mary, the Filipina who owns the home I rent is also a licensed caregiver. I rent her house; she helps me navigate the day-to-day, with 76 turns around the earth behind me, my balance isn’t what it used to be. She’s mid-thirties, very attractive, smart, strong from the gym, and good company. She speaks fluent English, no romantic angle. I’ve got a Filipina wife and two young kids I’m devoted to.
Puerto Galera was wide awake by then, streets crowded with people doing what they do every day, polite smiles and friendly greetings the norm, tuk tuks, trikes, private cars, motorcycles, all moving about with purpose and not a case of road rage in sight. Traffic here is nothing like the nightmares you experience in the big cities like Manila or Cebu City, and there are no jeepneys or taxis to complicate things.
I’ve lived in the Philippines off and on since the ’90s. Back then I chased nightlife and made my share of dumb decisions. I learned from them. These days I live quietly among five older Filipina friends who look out for me while I try to return the favor. Life here isn’t simple—people work hard, and when honest work dries up, some hustle to keep families fed. I’ve been taken in once or twice; I don’t carry hate over it. I chalk it up to my choices and move on.
We crossed the street to say howdy at an open-front bar where a few of Mary’s gym friends were gathered. Three Australians, an American, held court near the counter; while two Filipino gents were playing a quiet game of pool. The ladies, girlfriends and wives sat together in back. Mary settled me in a chair with the guys so I could listen and chime in, then joined the ladies’ table. I knew a couple of the Australians by face, not the others, but they were all regulars. The talk started like standard pub patter—slang and ribbing—but with every fresh bottle the edges sharpened.
The First Cheap Shot
During a conversation I had nothing to add to I stood to stretch and drifted to the ladies’ table. Two of Mary’s gym mates were there—middle aged Filipinas with the kind of poise that quiets a room. One wore a red dress that showed a lot of lovely brown skin and would have looked at home at any beach bar. Mary did the introductions; we chatted about kids, routines, the gym—clean, easy conversation.
Then the American wobbled over—skinny, unshaven, a few beers in, mid-seventies. He fired off a lewd, body-focused “request” at the woman in red, making a crack about “work done” and wanting to “check the results.” Over the line by a mile. She stiffened, then dismissed him—polite voice, firm boundary—and pivoted back to our talk about her kids.
Bite: If you need alcohol to say what you “really think,” what you really think probably belongs in your diary—then in the trash.
I considered lighting him up. Years ago, I might’ve. These days I choose judgment over heroics. He slunk back to the counter; I let it pass and kept talking with the ladies.
The Table Test (What Happened Next)
I followed to grab my cane—big brass eagle head on top, just in case, forgetting I had left it at home—and the boys met him with the tabloid-reader question: “Well?” He grunted something crude about being refused. That’s where I spoke up. “I was there. Your manners suck,” I said. Predictably, he popped. Deny, attack, posture—classic defenses when a “joke” is just lazy disrespect.
Surgical read of the room: the Aussies weren’t going to check him hard, and the Filipino gents were trying to keep the afternoon from becoming a police report. The group had also been making sport of people across the street picking up government food boxes—sizing folks up and knocking them down from a barstool. That’s not banter; that’s punching down for sport.
Then the topic swerved to what Australians can or can’t call their Indigenous people these days, with one man grousing that a certain old term is now considered a slur. Reacting, not reflecting, I said, “Like how some whites in America use the n-word.” Split-second hush—then the American exploded: “Don’t say that word around me. Ever.” He branded me a racist and told me I wasn’t welcome.
Bite: Funny how some folks will heckle the hungry from a bar stool and leer at women in front of their wives—but the moment you name a slur as a slur, suddenly they’re the etiquette police.
My kettle started to whistle. “Who’s the problem here? You crossed a line with our friends—in front of your wife.” He doubled down with louder accusations. Somewhere in the noise I asked what he thought about Charlie Kirk’s death. He spat something like, “One down, one to go.” That told me everything I needed to know.
For the record: I did not swing my cane. I imagined it. I chose the door instead—tools first, trouble never. Mary and I settled our tab and stepped back into the street’s clean air and decent manners.
Reckoning After Midnight (Hard-Edged Accountability)
I laid there replaying it all—the leer, the crude demand, the cheap shots at people carrying food boxes, and the line that detonated the room. I don’t “turn the other cheek” anymore. I’ve swallowed too many excuses for lousy behavior in my lifetime. When the American cheered a death, my grip on the cane tightened. I pictured the swing. I didn’t take it. That was discipline, not mercy.
Here’s the ugly part: in naming a slur for what it is, I used the word out loud. That was a mistake—tactically and morally. It hijacked the moment and handed the clown an escape hatch: pretend to be offended, change the subject, dodge the standard. I won’t give that gift again.
My rule going forward:
- I will call out leering, humiliation, and cheering the dead.
- I will not use slurs, ever. Not because anyone scares me, but because slurs are intellectual laziness that hand your opponent your own mic.
- If a room won’t course-correct, I take the door. You can’t fix drunk with logic.
If that makes me old-fashioned, fine. I’ll be old-fashioned with a spine.
Bite, Don’t Backfire (Tough & Surgical)
Was I supposed to nod along while a half-cut barroom moralist ogled a woman in front of his wife, mocked people collecting food, and then smirked over a political figure’s death? Not happening. I pushed back. He melted down.
I also learned—again—that slurs nuke your own case. The instant one hits the air, the cowards become choirboys. Suddenly they’re the etiquette police and you’re on trial for the one thing that’s easy to condemn, while their behavior gets a free pass. That’s a sucker’s trade.
The standard from here on out:
- Name the line: “That’s demeaning.” “That’s punching down.” “Cheering death is depraved.”
- Deny the fig leaf: “‘Just joking’ isn’t a defense; it’s an admission you knew it was wrong.”
- Keep the moral high ground: no slurs, no threats. If the room won’t right itself, leave it to drown in its own beer.
I don’t turn the other cheek. I set the standard and stand by it.