The titas in a barangay where gossip spreads faster than a fire sale at Divisoria held the real power, and that is wielding chismis sharper than a newly bought itak. The most awaited event of the year wasn’t Christmas, nor even election season when politicians miraculously remembered the poor. No, the true spectacle was something far grander.
The De Leons attempted a blue-and-pink fireworks display last year, but a slight miscalculation sent half the barangay into panic, thinking war had broken out. Meanwhile, the Santoses filled an entire pool with pink-colored water, only for an unexpected downpour to turn everything into a murky salmon shade.
But this year, Team Spectrum had a different plan. A secret alliance of fed-up titas, woke college students, and one rogue priest were on a mission to sabotage the most anticipated reveal of them all, which is the grand celebration of the ultra-wealthy Rodriguezes. They ensure that when the reveal happened, neither pink nor blue would appear. Instead, they would unleash The Great Gender Liberation Extravaganza.
Armed with rainbow-colored smoke bombs, biodegradable glitter cannons, and a speaker rigged to blast RuPaul’s Cover Girl, they infiltrated the venue. They swapped out the pink and blue balloons for a burst of all colors, rigged the cake to ooze rainbow filling, and replaced the gender-reveal cannon with a confetti blaster loaded with colors no one had ever seen before, probably because they mixed all the dyes together without reading instructions.
Then, the big moment arrived. The Rodriguezes, wearing their gender-coded outfits (Dad in blue, Mom in pink, their poor dog a walking gender stereotype), stood proudly before a crowd of eager titas and overly excited ninongs. The mayor, dramatically wiping his forehead, prepared to push the big red button.
“Three… two… one — ”
BOOM.
A kaleidoscope of colors exploded into the sky. Neon greens, electric oranges, rebellious purples, and unapologetic yellows rained down on the stunned audience. The fog machine released a mystical cloud of rainbow smoke. The crowd gasped. A tricycle driver skidded to a halt, convinced the second coming was upon them. Somewhere, a carabao let out a confused moo.
The Rodriguezes blinked. The mayor looked like he was reconsidering his life choices. Tita Baby clutched her pearls and whispered, “Ay, Diyos ko… ano ‘to?” Then, as if struck by divine intervention, a kid in the crowd shouted, “Gusto ko ng kulay berde!” Another screamed, “Ako gusto ko maging purple na astronaut!”
Murmurs spread like wildfire. “Bakit nga ba pink for girls? Bakit blue for boys? Bakit hindi puwedeng bahala na sila?” And then, the most unexpected thing happened.
The Rodriguezes laughed. Not a nervous chuckle, but a full, hearty laugh that sent their diamond accessories jingling. “Well,” Mr. Rodriguez said, brushing rainbow glitter off his suit, “I guess our child will just be whoever they want to be.”
Tita Susan, still clutching her lechon kawali, muttered, “Back in my day, gender reveals were just a simple ultrasound. Now, we have more plot twists than a teleserye.”
Kuya Boy, the local tricycle driver, took a deep drag of his cigarette and said, “Kung gusto ng bata maging astronaut, dapat bilhan na ‘yan ng helmet! Hindi ‘yung laging sinasabihan ng ‘hindi pwede’.”
The barangay captain, still picking glitter out of his hair, sighed, “Malamang, next year may magpapasabog ng gender-reveal volcano naman.”
The town’s annual gender reveal showdown was no more. Instead, they started The Baby’s First Color Festival, where newborns were welcomed with a glorious explosion of hues symbolizing infinite possibilities. One family even revealed their child’s name using a lechon that, when sliced open, spilled out rainbow-colored rice. Tita Susan nearly fainted but recovered after three servings.
The impact of that single event rippled far beyond the town as the years passed. Women who had once been told to be mahinhin began questioning why they had to shrink themselves. Mothers stopped telling their daughters to sit properly and started saying, “Anak, you don’t have to be just pink. You can be the whole rainbow.”
Meanwhile, in every Filipino household, young women who once sat through these gender-coded parties with forced smiles were now rolling their eyes and saying, “Ano na naman ‘to? Another excuse para magparty pero may kahalong patriarchy?”
In group chats, Filipinas joked, “Gender reveal daw, pero pag laki mo, ‘Babae ka, dapat sa kusina ka lang!’” Another chimed in, “Yung gender reveal natin dapat ‘Would you like to be underpaid and overworked or underestimated and overjudged?’”
And these daughters grew up daring to be more. They became pilots, scientists, artists, athletes, CEOs, and activists, shattering ceilings, doors, and outdated traditions. They demanded equal pay, fought against violence, and reclaimed spaces that were once denied to them. They refused to be boxed into pastel-colored expectations.
The country started to change in small but powerful ways. Schools stopped separating boys and girls by uniform color. Toy stores stopped sorting kids into blue and pink aisles. Women no longer felt the pressure to conform to outdated roles. The message spread that no one should be limited by the color assigned to them at birth.
As for Team Spectrum, they were never caught. Some say they still lurk in the shadows, ready to strike whenever a gender reveal cake is about to be sliced. Some say they’ve retired, living their best rainbow-filled lives. But one thing’s for sure, that San Pedro was never the same again, and neither was the rest of the country.
If we can laugh at how absurd gender reveal parties have become, why can’t we also laugh at, and then dismantle, the outdated roles that continue to box women in? If a tiny town like San Pedro can embrace the full spectrum of identity, what’s stopping the rest of us?
***
Editor’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or overly dramatic gender reveal parties is purely coincidental. No titas were harmed in the making of this story, except maybe their sensibilities.
