February Girl.

This is my month.

In 2003, I was asked to be the February Girl in a project organized by a women's welfare organization in the Philippines. They produced a calendar/organizer/diary that featured a "strong Filipina" for each month. I "represented" the Muslim minority: a student, a state scholar, Filipino-Muslim, female, assertive, open-minded, from Southern Mindanao. The other months featured celebrities in different fields: music, film, sports, education, politics, and so on. I was the only non-celebrity.

I remember the experience. I was more than a little awkward, with my college jeans and casual shirts, my non-celebrity status. We did the shoot in a day, at one of the older buildings in my university. There was a lady who did my make-up, and the photographer's assistant told me what to do, how to pose. I had to fix my own hair, because they'd wanted me to cover up with a tarha. I didn't use to cover my hair in college, so it was such a lie that I did that shoot. 

The organization sent me flowers and a basket filled with books such as The Kitchen God's Wife by Amy Tan, other books that empower women. I was obviously not paid for this modelling. 

When I got the finished product, I was very disappointed. All throughout the photoshoot, another lady, presumably the writer, talked to me, asked me questions. It was the usual, "What is it like to be one of the few Muslim women in your university? What challenges have you faced? What's your background?" I joked a lot. I didn't take the whole project seriously. I just thought it was gonna be awesome to be in a calendar. Later on, she asked me why I didn't wear the hijab, and I told her I wasn't ready.

In the actual calendar, on the page after my pictures, was a full-length article on me. It made these horrible statements that I never said. The lady-writer implied them from my answers and mis-quoted me. Instead of representing my "demographic", I came off as someone unsure of myself, of my people's cause, of my religion, of my background. I was definitely NOT a strong woman.

Now that I think about it, maybe at the time, I WAS unsure of who I was, even though I wouldn't have openly admitted it. 

Part of me wishes I could find my one copy of that calendar, look through it, laugh about it. I was too embarrassed of it to give it out to friends; and I hid my copy so well I can't remember where it is now. Part of me really doesn't want to see it again.

It doesn't stop me from remembering it every February.

And so, this is my month. Welcome to my month.