When Curls Are Mocked and Principles Are Bent: A Lesson on Love and Good Governance

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I still remember the day my former girlfriend finally let her hair curl naturally. She looked genuinely beautiful—radiant, confident, and at peace with herself. Her curls framed her face with life and movement, as if a part of her that had long been restrained was finally allowed to breathe. In that moment, she did not just look pretty; she looked whole. I admired her deeply, not only because of how she appeared, but because she dared to embrace what was naturally hers.

That courage, however, did not survive the noise around her.

Mockery came quietly at first—careless remarks, disguised jokes, and side comments meant to wound without leaving visible scars. Over time, those voices grew louder than her own. Slowly, the confidence I once saw in her eyes faded. And then came the moment that unsettled me most: she uncurled her hair. Not because she wanted to, but because she felt pressured to erase what others refused to accept. I felt anger rise—not the shallow kind, but the kind born from watching something genuine being undone by cruelty.

I had made real efforts. I sacrificed time. I spent money. I rearranged priorities and even missed my golf game—something I rarely do—just to support her and help her reclaim a confidence that life had long denied her. Seeing her reverse all of that felt like watching a fragile victory collapse. At first, I took it personally. I saw it as disregard for what I had given. Later, I understood it was something more complex and far more painful.

That night, she called me from the house she feared most—a home filled with bitterness, silent hostility, and relatives who never let her forget that she was alone. An orphan with a deceased mother and an absent father, she lived among cousins who projected their own frustrations onto her. When she said, “I feel ugly,” my heart sank. I knew those words were not born from truth, but from years of being told—directly and indirectly—that she was less.

In that moment, my anger softened into sadness. I realized that intelligence does not always protect a person from emotional harm. I had always believed she was intelligent—and she was—but even the brightest minds can grow tired of fighting daily humiliation. Giving in was not weakness; it was exhaustion. Still, I could not ignore the pain of seeing someone I believed in surrender something so beautiful, something so symbolic of inner strength.

Yet as much as I empathized with her pain, I also came to a difficult realization of my own. She needed to learn that effort matters. Love is not sustained by feelings alone, but by recognizing who consistently stands beside you. What hurt me was not that others mocked her—people like that will always exist—but that my efforts were outweighed by voices that had never invested anything in her healing. I was not asking her to fight the world for me; I was hoping she would learn to value sincerity over noise.

This personal experience led me to reflect deeply on good governance.

Good governance, like natural curls, begins with authenticity. Leaders start with principles, vision, and genuine concern for the people. But once pressure mounts—once ridicule, threats, and vested interests surround them—many choose to bend rather than stand firm. Integrity is straightened to appear “practical.” Principles are adjusted to avoid conflict. And slowly, what was once genuine becomes acceptable but hollow.

Just as my former girlfriend began to see herself through the eyes of those who mocked her, governments sometimes begin to govern through the approval of power brokers rather than the needs of the people. In both cases, the result is the same: dignity eroded, confidence lost, and something precious undone—not because it was wrong, but because it was difficult to defend.

What this taught me is sobering. Effort alone is not enough when the environment remains hostile. Love, like governance, needs protection. Reform, like healing, requires patience and courage. You can invest time, money, and heart—but if mockery and corruption remain unchecked, progress can unravel quickly. That does not mean the effort was wasted. It means the fight runs deeper than appearances.

In the end, I learned that you cannot fight every battle for someone else. Whether it is a woman learning to believe in her own worth or a nation struggling to uphold integrity, the final stand must come from within. Still, I hold on to this belief: curl power, like good governance, is real. It is natural, resilient, and worth defending—even when it bends, even when it trembles.

Because when we stop valuing genuine effort and start listening only to the noise, we do not just lose beauty or principles—we lose the courage to remain ourselves.

_____

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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The Gay Son and Graft and Corruption in Government: Why Fear Protects Wrongdoing

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I write this not merely as an academician or political analyst, nor only as a public safety and law enforcement professor who has spent years examining institutions, behavior, and power. I write this as a reckoning—and I write it as a single father. This reckoning is shaped by scholarship, lived experience, and a young man’s quiet suffering that revealed how fear, when normalized, teaches people to survive by silence—whether inside a family or within the state.

Years ago, I met a young man who lived as if visibility itself was dangerous. He spoke softly, chose his words carefully, and carried himself as though one wrong sentence could cost him everything. To most people, he was just another student trying to finish school. But beneath that calm surface was a life divided. He was gay, and he was hiding—not because he was confused, but because he was afraid.

When his parents were away and the house finally belonged to silence, he would cross-dress, not to rebel or provoke, but simply to breathe. In those moments, alone with walls that did not judge him, he felt briefly whole. He even took hormones in secret, risking his health in the quiet hope that his body might someday reflect who he felt himself to be. As a law-enforcement professor, I have seen many forms of risky behavior, and I know this truth well: people take dangerous paths not because they are reckless, but because safer paths are closed to them. As a father, what wounded me most was not what he did, but why he believed he had to do it alone.

His parents were separated, each with their own partners, each living a different life. He stayed with his father—the one who remained. His father paid his tuition, supported his studies, and ensured that food and shelter were never lacking. On the surface, it looked like stability. He could go home anytime he wanted. Yet in his heart, that freedom felt fragile. He believed, with painful certainty, that if he ever told his father the truth about who he was, his father would erupt in anger, curse him, and drive him out of the house. He did not imagine dialogue or understanding; he imagined exile. Love, in his mind, was conditional. Shelter was revocable. Acceptance had an expiration date.

What made his fear even heavier was that it followed him even when he left the house. He told me that even when he went out—to a mall, a public place where people laughed, shopped, and moved freely—he carried the same anxiety with him. He was never fully at ease. He was always conscious of how he walked, how he talked, and how he dressed, afraid that one wrong gesture might somehow travel back home and cost him everything. Even outside the house, he was still hiding. Even in public, he felt homeless.

He told me he did not feel loved—not because his father failed materially, but because his father never made room for truth. Provision without acceptance felt transactional. Freedom without reassurance felt hollow. The house he could always return to never felt like a home; it felt like borrowed space, safe only as long as he remained silent. Gratitude became a form of self-censorship. Silence became the price of belonging. He tried to understand his father, excusing the distance as the product of a broken marriage, hardened beliefs, and unhealed wounds, and in doing so, he chose to carry the fear himself.

As a single father, this is where the reckoning deepened. No child should feel unsafe not only at home, but even outside of it. No child should carry fear into places meant for rest, joy, and normal life. When a young person cannot even walk inside a mall without anxiety about being seen, judged, or reported, something fundamental has already failed. That is not discipline. That is not guidance. That is fear being inherited.

And this is where the story stops being only about a gay son—and becomes a political and institutional warning.

What happened inside that young man’s home is the same mechanism that sustains graft and corruption in government. In my years teaching public safety, studying organizational behavior, and analyzing political systems, I have seen this pattern repeatedly: when people believe that speaking the truth will lead to anger, punishment, or expulsion, silence becomes a rational choice. Just as the young man feared being cursed and thrown out of his home, many public servants fear being ostracized, demoted, or destroyed for exposing wrongdoing. So they stay quiet, look away from anomalies they are trained to detect, sanitize reports, and learn to live double lives—not because they lack integrity, but because they are afraid.

Corruption rarely survives on greed alone. It survives in unsafe spaces. Governments, like families, can provide salaries, benefits, authority, and structure—and still fail morally. When leadership offers provision without protection, people learn that integrity is risky and silence is rewarded. On paper, institutions function. In reality, wrongdoing is quietly guarded by fear. Fear becomes the most loyal bodyguard of corruption.

As a political analyst, this is the uncomfortable truth we often avoid. We pass laws, create commissions, and announce reforms, yet corruption persists because we refuse to confront its emotional and psychological roots. Transparency collapses in cultures where honesty is punished. Whistleblowers are not made brave by policy alone; they are made brave by assurance. Integrity does not grow where truth is merely demanded—it grows where truth is protected.

The young man I met did not need more money, more freedom, or more lectures. He needed assurance. He needed to know that no truth he carried would cost him his place in his own home. Our institutions are no different. Public servants do not only need rules and salaries; they need leaders who will not abandon them for choosing honesty, leaders who make it clear that truth will not cost them their dignity, livelihood, or safety.

This is the heart of my reckoning. Ethical leadership, like good parenting, is not about control—it is about presence. It is about creating spaces where people feel safe enough to be real. Where fear governs, wrongdoing flourishes. Where trust exists, integrity begins to breathe. That young man’s story remains with me because it exposes a truth we ignore at great cost: when people believe honesty will exile them—at home, in public, or in institutions—they choose silence and learn to survive by living half-lives.

And until we confront fear—not only inside our houses, but in our halls of power—graft and corruption will always find protection in silence, and truth will continue to wander, anxious and unseen, even in places where it should have been safe.

_____

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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NAIS NG POSISYON PARA YUMAMAN: Isang Pagninilay sa Paglilingkod, Ambisyon, at Tiwala ng Bayan

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

May malaking pagkakaiba sa pagitan ng pakikipaglaban para sa kapakanan ng bayan at ng pakikipaglaban para sa isang posisyon sa gobyerno. Ang una ay nagmumula sa tunay na paglilingkod at sakripisyo; ang ikalawa ay madalas na inuudyukan ng ambisyon at pansariling interes. Madalas, pareho silang nagsusuot ng parehong salita—serbisyo, malasakit, pagbabago—ngunit magkaiba ang laman ng puso.

Marami na akong nakilalang tao na nagsilbi sa bayan kahit walang titulo. Mga ordinaryong mamamayan na tahimik na tumutulong, lumalaban para sa tama, at naninindigan kahit walang kapalit. At marami rin akong nasaksihang pumasok sa pulitika na puno ng sigaw ng “para sa bayan,” ngunit kalaunan ay naging tahimik na lamang kapag nakaupo na—maliban na lang kapag may proyekto, pondo, o interes na nakataya.

Dito ko lalong naunawaan na ang posisyon sa gobyerno ay maaaring maging dalawang bagay: isang tungkulin o isang tukso. Kapag ito ay tinanggap bilang tungkulin, ang kapangyarihan ay nagiging pasanin—isang mabigat na responsibilidad na kailangang gampanan nang may konsensya. Ngunit kapag ito ay tiningnan bilang tukso, ang kapangyarihan ay nagiging daan—daan sa impluwensya, koneksyon, at sa hindi maikakailang posibilidad ng pagyaman.

Hindi lahat ng may posisyon ay masama, at hindi rin lahat ng nangangarap ng posisyon ay mali. Ngunit nagkakaproblema tayo kapag ang posisyon ang nagiging pangarap, at ang bayan ay nagiging palamuti lamang sa mga talumpati. Kapag ang serbisyo ay may presyo, at ang malasakit ay may kondisyon, doon unti-unting nawawala ang tunay na diwa ng pamumuno.

Masakit aminin, ngunit ramdam ito ng karaniwang mamamayan. Nararamdaman nila kapag ang proyekto ay hindi para sa kanila, kundi para sa larawan. Kapag ang batas ay hindi pantay, kundi pumipili. Kapag ang pangako ay malakas bago ang eleksyon, ngunit mahina pagkatapos. Sa mga ganitong sandali, hindi lamang pera ang nawawala sa bayan—pag-asa ang unti-unting nauubos.

Ang masakit pa, kapag nasanay tayo sa ganitong kalakaran, nagiging normal ang mali. Parang tinatanggap na lang natin na “ganyan talaga ang pulitika.” Ngunit hindi dapat. Sapagkat sa bawat opisyal na ginagawang negosyo ang posisyon, may mamamayang patuloy na nagbabayad—sa anyo ng buwis, kawalan ng serbisyo, at pagkadismaya.

Ang tunay na naglilingkod sa bayan ay hindi perpekto. Napapagod din siya, nagkakamali, at minsan ay nadidismaya. Ngunit ang kaibahan niya sa naghahangad ng posisyon para yumaman ay malinaw: kapag may kailangang isakripisyo, bayan ang pipiliin niya, hindi ang sarili.

Sa huli, ang posisyon sa gobyerno ay lilipas. Ang titulo ay mawawala. Ngunit ang iniwang bakas—kung nagpagaan ba ng buhay o nagdagdag ng pasanin—iyon ang mananatili. At bilang mamamayan, bilang saksi, at bilang bahagi ng bansang ito, patuloy kong pipiliin ang paniniwalang ang pamahalaan ay hindi dapat maging hagdan ng pagyaman, kundi daluyan ng pag-asa.

Sapagkat ang bayan ay hindi nangangailangan ng mas maraming ambisyoso. Ang bayan ay nangangailangan ng mas maraming handang maglingkod, kahit walang kapalit.

_____

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

VIEWS: 1.34M

Focus on Your Job Description: How Nations Win and Corruption Loses

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I once watched the Barangay Ginebra basketball team through the invitation of their player number 23 Raymond "Mr. Never Heard" Aguilar, during one of their practices, and what I witnessed stayed with me far longer than any game-day highlight. Inside that gym, there was no noise of a cheering crowd, no television cameras, no roaring chants. What I saw instead was discipline—quiet, deliberate, and deeply instructive.

I witnessed the importance of role players and practice players—the ones who rarely make the headlines, whose names are seldom chanted by the crowd, yet whose presence is indispensable to the team’s success. What struck me most was how the coach treated them. There was no hierarchy in effort, no favoritism in discipline. Role players like number 23 were treated with the same seriousness and respect as the stars in the regular rotation. Every drill mattered. Every screen mattered. Every pass mattered. Each player had a role, and every role was honored.

Role players, in particular, carried a silent burden. They were not there to score or dominate the ball. Their task was to assist, defend, set screens, absorb contact, and make their teammates stronger—especially during practice. But beyond that, they were expected to be ready at any moment. When called from the bench, their responsibility was to deliver quality minutes, stabilize the game, and substitute for star players without disrupting the team’s rhythm. No excuses. No spotlight. Just readiness.

There were moments when they could have taken the shot, moments when they could have chased recognition. But they chose restraint—not because they lacked ability, but because they understood their job description. Their value was measured not by points, but by trust. When the coach called their name, they had to be ready.

That practice taught me a painful truth about our nation: we do not fail because roles are unclear; we fail because too many people refuse to stay within them—or refuse to prepare for them.

Perhaps, if everyone—whether in government or in the private sector—faithfully adhered to the duties clearly defined by their positions, and if they constantly remembered the simple yet powerful reminder to “focus on your job description,” corruption and anomalies that plague our nation might cease to exist.

When we focus on our responsibilities, we do only what is proper: what has been entrusted to us, what we are mandated to do, and what is right. We perform our work with honor and integrity. That is the true essence of every profession—on the basketball court, in the classroom, in the office, or in government.

This truth becomes even more urgent when we speak of public service.

Elected presidents and vice presidents, the ombudsman, and members of the judiciary all have specific roles clearly stated in the Constitution. None of these roles include enriching themselves, engaging in corruption, or bending the law for personal gain. They are mandated to perform their duties strictly within what the Constitution allows—and nothing beyond that.

The same principle applies to legislators. Those in the executive branch execute the law. Those in the legislative branch legislate or make the law. And those in the judiciary interpret the law. That is the constitutional design. There is no space in that design for violating the law, bending it, manipulating it, or circumventing it to make money.

And this responsibility does not stop at the national level.

Those who serve in local government—governors, vice-governors, board members, mayors, vice mayors, and councillors—are all placed in office to serve the people, not to enrich themselves from the people’s money. Their duty is to uplift communities, improve daily life, and make their constituents feel that government is working for them.

Even at the most basic level of governance, the same rule applies. Barangay captains and barangay kagawads, down to the smallest units of local administration, are not there to make money or build personal empires. They are there to serve—to listen, to help, to resolve conflicts, and to protect their people. Power, no matter how small the jurisdiction, is never a license to exploit.

It is not the job of a senator to steal. It is not the duty of a congressman to engage in corruption. It is not the mandate of a judge to sell justice, of a governor to divert funds, of a mayor to turn public office into a family enterprise, or of a barangay official to pocket public resources. Their job—at every level—is singular and sacred: to serve the people.

That is why it is called public service, not personal service. Public office is not a business opportunity, not a reward for loyalty, and not a shortcut to wealth. It is a trust—a stewardship over laws, resources, and lives that belong to the people.

When everyone focuses on their job description, corruption does not merely decrease—it becomes difficult to commit.

Corruption thrives in blurred lines. It survives where authority is abused and where officials believe they are entitled to do more than what is mandated. The moment a public servant steps outside his or her job description, corruption finds its entry point. But when roles are clear—and faithfully observed—corruption is starved of oxygen.

Just like in basketball, when a role player suddenly decides to play hero ball, the system breaks down. He forces shots not drawn in the playbook and weakens team chemistry. In governance, when an official tasked to execute the law begins to manipulate it, or when one tasked to interpret the law starts bending it, the system collapses. Corruption begins not with theft, but with role confusion.

Focusing on job descriptions creates boundaries, and boundaries protect institutions. It also creates accountability. When everyone does only what they are supposed to do, any deviation becomes obvious. Corruption hides best in chaos and ambiguity. Discipline exposes it.

It builds a culture of professionalism, where pride comes not from wealth accumulation, but from competence, reliability, and trust. It prevents collusion, because corrupt networks depend on officials stepping beyond their mandates to protect one another. When each office stays in its constitutional lane, corruption networks fail to form.

At the local level, integrity at the barangay prevents corruption from reaching the national level. When barangay officials treat public funds as trust—not entitlement—corruption loses its roots.

In the end, corruption is not defeated only by laws, arrests, or investigations. It is defeated daily—quietly—by people who choose to stay in their lane.

Perhaps, if all government employees—elected and appointed, national and local alike—would simply remain faithful to their job descriptions, we would have a great nation. A nation with a strong future. A nation with clear direction. A nation guided not by greed, but by service.

This country will not be rebuilt by grand speeches or dramatic promises. It will be rebuilt in the quiet “practice sessions” of governance—budget deliberations, procurement decisions, court rulings, barangay assemblies, and everyday choices made when no one is watching.

Focusing on your job description may sound ordinary. But in a nation wounded by corruption, it is revolutionary.

Because when everyone simply does what they are supposed to do—nothing illegal, nothing excessive, nothing self-serving—we do not just strengthen institutions. We restore trust. We honor the Constitution. And we remind the next generation that integrity, like teamwork, is how nations win.

The role players returned to practice.

The stars prepared for game day.

No headlines were written.

But championships—and nations—are built that way:

by people who know their role, prepare for it, and honor it—especially when no one is watching.

____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

VIEWS: 1.02M