Kwentong Chinoy

The Closet is Made of Porcelain: The Chinoy “Coming Out” Experience

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On June 22, 2025
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My parents and I were in the middle of a screaming match when I finally said it. My voice breaking, my heart pounding. Then—sudden silence.

We had been arguing about politics. They couldn’t understand why I just…cared so much about things that didn’t seem to concern me. LGBTQ+ rights being among them. 

For years, I had been vocal about where I stood with the queer community. More than once, that led to tense arguments and heated debates with my family. “It’s not their choice!” I would insist. “They just want equal rights, is that too much to ask?” But it was always distant. Always something that happened to other people, something that, in my family’s eyes, had nothing to do with us. 

It was always they. Never I.

Until it was. It always was. 

“Because I’m one of them! That’s why I care!”

That’s what I remember shouting, out of panic, frustration, and maybe a desperate need to finally be known. I held my breath, waiting for someone to say something, to yell at me or console me—anything.

Now, years later, I sometimes look back on my own experience of the so-called “coming out.” What is it, exactly, that makes coming out such a terrifying experience in the Chinoy (Chinese-Filipino) community? And why were so many of us—myself, and so many of my queer Chinoy friends—so inherently afraid of it?

To put those questions into perspective, let’s first consider what “coming out” means within our traditional cultural backgrounds. 

In China, it’s called chūguì (出柜), which literally means “to come out of the closet.” Even today, it remains both a niche phenomenon and a loud secret in Chinese society. While China is home to one of the world’s largest populations, it’s also estimated to have one of the largest queer populations, and yet, visibility often remains limited, and open discussions can still be challenging.

Recent studies show that a significant portion of China’s queer community still choose to hide their identities rather than live openly. Why is this so? Much of it can be traced back to the deep-rooted family and moral values that shape Chinese culture. From the moment we are born, we’re taught principles that govern everything from career paths to romantic choices. Filial piety, collective reputation, and the pressure to continue the family line weigh heavily on those who don’t fit into traditional molds. Often, queer Chinese individuals choose to keep their identities a secret to help their families “save face,” a concept rooted in avoiding shame or humiliation, especially in the eyes of the extended family or community. In some homes, queerness becomes an open secret: privately understood, yet publicly denied, in an effort to preserve the family’s standing in the outside world.

On the other hand, the Philippines’ relationship with queerness can be both complex and contradictory. Queer individuals are often embraced—especially in spaces of entertainment, like onstage, on TV, in salons, and beauty parlors. Yet beyond those familiar roles, many still face subtle and overt forms of discrimination.

Many say that the Philippines is considered one of the more progressive countries in Asia when it comes to LGBTQ+ pride, yet this remains true only to a certain extent, many queer Filipinos live in constant negotiation with safety and visibility, often code-switching between who they are and who they are expected to be depending on where they are, who they’re with, or even what time of day it is. Against the deeply religious backdrop of Filipino culture and history, we’ve learned to navigate a conservatism shaped by faith and tradition, one that is meaningful to many but can sometimes make open expression feel risky or even unsafe.

So when you’re raised Chinese-Filipino, caught between the weight of tradition and the shield of religion, what happens when those two worlds collide? Where does Pride belong in this chaotic mix of long-standing values? 

The truth is, as we struggle to define our cultural identities—are we Chinese or are we Filipino?—queer Chinoys face yet another, perhaps even more daunting question: Where does my queerness fit in? 

And it feels as though there is no definite answer to this. Even I, who have been out and proud of my queer identity for many years, continue to ask this of myself. For many of us, queerness isn’t something separate from our cultural identity, it’s woven into it. 

I’ve often felt too quiet, too “Chinese,” for the loud, expressive world of mainstream Filipino queer spaces. And then I’d turn around and feel far too queer for the more traditional, reserved Chinese ones.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? Queerness does not demand conformity. There was never a box for me to fit into, there was only the potential for me to carve out my own space for myself. I was never going to be like any other identity, just like how Chinoys were never going to be JUST Chinese or JUST Filipino, we had to create our own community. 

In high school, when the walls of my closet were still sturdy and dusty, I thought I was the only one. I came out first to my closest friends, none of them queer like I was. So when I finally told them, it was a quiet kind of relief that they didn’t make it a big deal. Sure, I had to explain what queerness meant for me, but they never made me feel like I had to justify it. I simply told them who I was, and that was enough for them.

Still, I often found myself looking around, wondering who else might understand what I was going through. The many faces of my schoolmates seemed to blur together. Of course, there were a few I suspected were like me. There were whispers in the hallways, rumors spun from secrecy and jokes. But I never found anyone I could truly share my isolation with.

Not until we all graduated, went off to college—and slowly, one by one, I watched my classmates bloom. And in their blooming, I allowed myself the quiet joy of realizing: none of us were ever really alone.

In more mature conversations with my now-adult high school friends, we began to share stories and quiet confessions about what it was like to be closeted back then. Our stories parallel each other.

We laughed about it: the crushes we had that would’ve caused quite a stir in our conservative Chinoy school. We laughed at the queer jokes we’d slipped into conversations, the ones we thought were so obvious, but apparently flew right over everyone’s heads. But oh how comforting it is now to know that at least one other person in the room had picked up on it and had quietly chuckled to themselves. 

However, the tension always shifts when the conversation turns to family. My friends avert their eyes and shrug. It is what it is, their silence seems to say. And I see it—those same children still inside us, still hoping to be seen. 

In college, we left home draped in colors and quiet rebellion. But when we returned, we stepped back into our assigned roles: the eldest daughter aiming for perfect grades, the only son carrying the family name, the older brother agreeing to meet the girl his parents liked, the daughter who felt more like a son.

In both Chinese and Filipino cultures, emotional openness doesn’t always translate to full acceptance. At home, respect and affection can sometimes feel conditional, offered as long as you stay within the bounds of what’s expected. When I asked my fellow queer Chinoys about their experiences, many pointed to the persistent pressure from both cultures: the demand to shrink themselves for the sake of family unity, to keep the peace by appearing “normal.”

The road to being “out” is never an easy one, there are simply too many things in our way. Too many eyes. Too much at stake.

Coming out to one person can feel like coming out to everyone. Your identity doesn’t stay private for long, it’s passed along the branches of the family tree, whispered behind hands at dinner parties, or relayed to a friend’s parents before you’re even ready.

And even when the words are finally said, the hardest part is finding a way to exist afterward. How do you stay visible in a community that only knows how to look away?

In many Chinoy households, silence becomes a mantra—if we don’t speak of it, it isn’t real. In our schools, we skim over difficult dialogues, acknowledge only the surface, and let the rest hang, unspoken, in the air.

It gets tiring. The push and pull. The wavering of colors. The constant stepping in and out of closet doors. The never-ending need to find your safe space.

But through it all, I hope you can remember this: those safe spaces do exist. And more often than not, they live with the right people, the ones who see you, hold space for you, and let you breathe, even if they don’t yet have the right words.

Through my tears and shaking hands that night, I felt my father hug me and my mother say “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” 

And that was enough for me. 

Later on, when I asked them how they felt about it, they both said they were surprised at how quickly they had accepted it. 

It did not matter that they may never fully understand it. That was okay.

They accepted me simply because it was me.

There’s still a long way to go before the Chinoy community fully embraces queerness not as a threat to tradition, but as something that deserves to exist within it. But for now, perhaps acceptance—perhaps even just the courage to be seen—is a beginning.

While my experience isn’t every queer Chinoy’s, I hope it brings comfort to anyone still searching for a space to exhale. That space is out there—quietly, patiently waiting for you—and often, it’s already in the arms of those who love you, even if understanding comes later on. And for those who want to be someone queer people can lean on: may you learn to speak louder, not just in words, but in the way you stay, listen, and hold our colors in all their light.

Happy Pride. To every soul still searching for ways to live their truth, know this:

We see you. You are valid. You are real. And you are deeply, fiercely loved.

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