So. It’s been nine months since I moved here. Nine months since I said goodbye to the wonderful people who have known me and seen me evolve into who I already am. Nine months since I saw my family. Nine months since I touched and hugged the friends who house my affections and love. Nine months.
My first time out here, I was terrified. I was crying every day. I really appreciated my friends coming online for Yahoo Messenger chat conferences and ganging up on my fears and telling me that I’ll be okay and that I’ll always have them to come back to. They didn’t know that I was crying my eyes out, reading out loud everything I was typing and sounding like a complete idiot. I have never been so vulnerable in my entire life.
My brother, my sweet sweet brother assured me that what he saw was bravery. He’s always known me as someone who has assured herself in her education, in the things she knows, and in the things she knows to be true. To see my cry on the very day I left was something he’d never imagine. Truth be told, I felt like I regressed to when I was 4 years old and a cry baby in Adak, Alaska, the last thing I knew of the United States. Full circle.
Coming here wasn’t well anticipated as thought. My dad was reluctant, and my mother hardly thought about it until the day itself. My friends all wanted a piece of me and wanted to hoard as much time as they can to have coffee or a good meal with me. And there is the fact that I flew to New York the day after I turned 30. I’m turning 31 in a few months and I can’t help but say to myself: What the fuck did you just do to yourself? Now you’re going to be reminded of everything every time June 3 rolls around.
We all need reminders.
Paired with the anticipation from the last few weeks of living in Manila was the fact that a lot of people forget that I was born here. To those who knew this, it made perfect sense. This is may or may not be the reason why I feel right at home here, like 9 months didn’t feel like nine months at all. At the same time, I have never felt any more Filipino. New York does that. It shows you what kind of stuff you’re made of, and almost everyone’s story is about where you’re from and what you do.
The way language works in my brain in interesting. I speak in a way that newly met friends think that I grew up here. Little did anyone know that I had to break out of Tagalog-based English, and an accent known as “conyo.” Other things stick as well. My mother called right after the Superbowl and I could hear the clan buzzing in the background. Automatically, I spoke to my mother in Ilocano. She passed the phone to uncles and aunts and some of them spoke to me in Ilocano. Clearly, I am no longer the little girl who was born in a US Navy boot camp in Chicago. I was their Ilocano kin in New York.
My grandfather on the other hand, never really understood the concept of me speaking Ilocano and spoke to me in careful but eloquent in English. He told me that he’s 87 years old and is diabetic, as if I didn’t know this, and as if I was another family who hasn’t heard from him in the last 10 years.
“I know that, lolo. I also know that you look young for your age. You don’t sound a day older than 50!”
He laughed. My grandfather is never one for modesty. He is a very very vain man who knows that he is hot for his age. Apparently, vanity runs in the family.
People have a lot of theories about heaven. One of the best explanations about how we’ll look like or how things will be up there is this: that whatever we are, whatever our relationships will be, whatever our character and personality is here on this plane of existence, is intensified.
New York is no heaven on earth. However, I have never felt more like myself than any other time in my life. I’ve been told that I’m so comfortable about myself that I easily come off as confident. I am told that I’m funny, sexy, pretty and have perfect hair. My age has become a guessing game. I laugh at cat calls, to which I smile back and thank for, then the callers politely wish me to have a good day. I sing like my whole body sings. I laugh like a dragon. I write like an old person. I talk in and out of English, Tagalog, and Ilocano in one thread. Some find me amazing, some find me naive and there are others who just don’t know what to do with me but I don’t care.
My dear friends, Pammu is very much the same. She promises that when she comes back, it’ll be like she was never gone in the first place.
A line of people builds and stretches around the block at Gramercy Theater, the same way it did at Irving Plaza last summer. Yesterday, the second Sunday with a record of six services, a passerby stops and asks “What’s the line for?”
Drew and Will, dapper-dressed and in line, respond: “Oh, we’re in line for church.”
“Haha. Very funny,” the man says, a doubting smile wrinkles his face.
“No, we’re serious! It really is church!” Drew insists and Will smiles in earnest inviting the man to have him cut in line.
“Haha, okay. Nice try. Very funny guys.” And he briskly walks away, replugging an earbud back into one of his ears. He might have something to talk about when he gets home. A good thing altogether.
I witnessed this conversation, defying his disbelief with a hope that he one day checks out this church that is housed at a venue such as Gramercy. The man walks away leaving me with an overwhelming desire to run after him yelling “It’s Hillsong! It really is a church! LOOK IT UP! LOOK IT UP!!” Then I’ll sob at the sidewalk curb, repeating the last three words there, fists slowly reaching the cold, overcast sky.
All that matters though is the evidence that he walks away from which caught his attention in the first place: the line of people wrapping around the block, which is more of a blessing and a testimony than a waste of time in cold weather.
Thus the Christmas Holidays have passed, and all the host of the them concluded. These are the records of my first Christmas in New York City, record of whither I went, what had transpired, and whom I celebrated the Yuletide with:
I have never felt so in tune the I have been in the last few days, as if the lunar eclipse marked something. I felt this way a few years ago, when Mars was suddenly visible to the naked eye. Lately, I’ve been laughing at the moon, as if it’s playing peek a boo with me; it’s also helping that the clouds have been away for so long. It’s like the Universe is synchronized, like it’s beating for a reason, like everything is good and right, like these things:
1) I’ve made a habit of smiling at people I think are Filipino, or if I recognize the language. I met a nanny earlier who’s been here for five years, and it was a pleasant conversation. She lives near where I live and I hope to run into her again. I smiled at a lady earlier and she smiled back at me like she knew something I knew. I’m sure she’s Filipino.
2) This morning, I am blessed beyond what my humanity deserves. If you are reading this, know me personally, and might see me on Sunday at Hillsong, go ahead and ask. You can tell me your story in return.
3) Crossing a street, I pass by a well dressed and well poised man, coated and wearing blue sunglasses. He walked in a straight line like a bullet showing off it’s accuracy. I would rather he saw me, but I wasn’t so sure if he did. I wanted to smile at him, wondering if he would smile back. He looked so pretty and neat and I so hoped that I was charming enough to catch his eye in spite of wearing black and all covered up. Then I realized, he might be gay.
4) I was restless all morning at work. I tried to read A Clash of Kings but Brienne and Catelyn were trying to figure out what they had just run away from and I was in the same confused boat as they were, so I decided to put that plot line on pause and do something else. Will said that I take deep breaths but all that did was take the restlessness to my arms. So I tweeted. I wanted to crochet but then again my mind will wander off. This was an opportunity to be focused.
5) The feeling of restlessness must have been reflected by the fact that there is a meteor shower. Maybe, just maybe, this makes sense. Or that Mercury is back on track.
6) It’s 3:52 pm and I haven’t had lunch. I do plan to do a yoga routine, vocalize and sing a song while my window is WIDE open. Might as well take advantage of the cold, with hopes of challenging what my body could do.
7) I think I’m developing a heart for buskers. Some more than others have mad talent and I may or may have not fallen in love with one or more of them around the city. I am forming the habit of keeping a dollar in my pocket in case an awesome talent catches my attention hard enough for me to follow their sound. I gave a dollar to a guy singing jazzed up standards and called me sweetheart as I thanked him. The only compliment I had today, which is saying a lot considering I hadn’t had the time to wash my face this morning. Generosity attracts, like a well earned dollar in return for a good rendition of a song.
8) It’s final. All I know to do is sing. It’s probably all I live for. It’s been a year since I started lessons with Edgardo. He made us go on hiatus due to Christmas festivities and I missed him like I’ve known him for decades and have known nothing else. All I know is to sing. I’m excited to be rehearsing Christmas songs tomorrow for church. Last week, I was sort of singled out (high five, ya’ll) as an example of “how everyone should sound like.” The week before, at an alter call in Irving Plaza, someone tapped my shoulder and said that I have a beautiful voice, that it’s bizarre for someone to hear someone else’s voice when they’re not facing you, and that I light up a room. “Keep singing,” she said. I hugged her half a dozen times.
9) Last night, as if bookmarking God, I whispered to my pillow, saying “Godangit, I feel like there’s something for me today.” Like there’s something I have to anticipate, something to look forward to. Like something inevitable is going to happen and that it’s for me. That everything around me is around FOR me. It’s a great feeling. If I were with Micko Yabut in a coffee shop in Alabang, I’d confidently tell him that I am some reincarnated deity. He’ll let me say it then he’ll tell me how stupid this notion is, but I won’t be offended…like benevolent deities don’t easily get offended.
10) It pays to love on people, so at work, I am saying goodbye to people who matter right before I leave, including thanks for whatever help and information they have given me. I notice that this doesn’t happen, and instead, people just jet out as soon as they could. I figured that if I were to be canonized for sainthood, I’d be the Saint Pammu, The Patron Saint of Being There. Also, I was raised to say goodbye properly.
One of my frustrations living where I live in New York is that the landlady we pay rent to does not care to have the communal oven fixed. Not wanting to turn on the heat is another thing (survival) but the oven is something else entirely (pleasure). Imagine then my frustration after having copied recipes on a notebook, only to find out that I will not be able to bake a chocolate cake, make turkey lasagna, churn out batches and baches of chocolate chip cookies, or roast Spam and squash whenever I want to. No one deserves to live this way. I am acutely aware of how GOOD my chocolate cake is (It’s SO GOOD). It has brought all kinds of boys to my yard back at home (in a manner of speaking). It has yet to happen here. Ugh.
I’ve been spending a few nights at Una’s house in Brooklyn in the last two weeks. Today, I cooked carbonara. As a thankful dweller, It’s only right.
I used turkey bacon, which reminds me of Rod, my drummer for a brother, who *hates* turkey bacon. He once spit out the words “It’s not real bacon” with disdain so subtle that I doubted his sarcasm for the oxymoron that is turkey bacon. With these lingering in my head, for this carbonara to work, it needs help.
Half a pack of the meat was already sliced into bite size bits. Becca was nice enough to put a pot of water to boil. They didn’t have parmesan cheese. I’ll figure that out later. Do they have nutmeg? Becca says they’re supposed to have some. We opened Una’s spice cabinet and the abundance of spice bottles gave me an assurance. But my hopes were gone. She did have a bottle of mixed spices that includes cinnamon, corriander, nutmeg, cardamom, cloves, ginger, and bay leaves. Like in the book of Genesis, I saw that it was very good.
By the time the bacon was done, I dumped half a box of fettucine into the water already seasoned with a fistfull of salt. I saw the bacon and it was looking insecure about itself. “It’s not REAL bacon,” I heard Rod in my head again. Determined to please my hosts, I will not be deterred by food prejudices; I pressed on to make this great.
Did they have parmesan cheese? Becca says they only have American cheese. I guess I’ll deal with that later. I am feeling sorry for the bacon in the pan.
I had hoped for white wine to sit with the bacon but Una’s refrigerator door has a wide collection of salad vinaigrettes. I survey them and decide that garlic parmesan and olive oil will do. It was sitting in a tablespoon of butter and drowning in desperation. Vinaigrette to the rescue, and it sizzles off. A good sign.
Meanwhile, I beat three eggs, a mesmerizing amount of whipping cream (you know, when you pour stuff into other stuff and you can see them like growing blobs of an unreal biology experiment, or things look awesome under a film of egg whites), and season it with an accidental amount of the aforementioned mixed spices. I feared that the cinnamon would kick in too much, therefore a helping of white pepper powder. I am feeling like a wizard at this point.
I harvested some pasta water and set it aside like a good devotee of Nigella Lawson. Then I dump the cooked fettucine into the vinaigrette-glazed turkey bacon. “You’re doing fine,” I assured the red bits of faux bacon, trying to convince myself the same thing. I let the pasta absorb what bacon was swimming in. I let the pasta understand what the bacon was saying. I was making the pasta agreeing with the medley of bacon, the butter and garlic parmesan vinaigrette. They had to agree because I was making it for the people who I am feeding. This is form of thanks, an offering that cannot go bad.
Then I dump the eggs + cream + spices into the pan, calming down as the dish was starting to look familiar. Like a fairy godmother showing up right on time, or the Cheshire cat in the middle of the road.
There is, of course, the problem with the absence of cheese. Becca mentioned American cheese, which my own mother is very passionate about, so this dish reminds me of her as well. And by this time, the voice of my brother’s turkey bacon hate has long gone. So in honor of mom, I take two slices of american cheese and stir everything in to submission. This is a fettucine carbonara, goddamit. I am making it and therefore it shall be so.
It was. And it was the best carbonara I have ever made without parmesan cheese, real bacon and nutmeg. This is how geniuses cope, I guess. This is how you make food. This is how I make people happy.
I haven’t really made a promise to myself that I’ll sleep so I can wake up before noon but the need to write is like an itch. So much great stuff happens in a place like New York that I just HAVE to write it, or some of it. I’m growing comfortable in my own skin and feeling at home with a few people and it’s becoming apparent to my NYC family that I am very talkative.
1) DIY chic. I saw leg warmers at Forever 21 and heard my inner granny say “I can make that shit.” So I will.
2) I’m probably that girl. I am probably the most awkward 30 year old I know. I’m the oldest amongst the people I hang out with, which is pretty much almost kinda the same thing back home in the Philippines. Having said that, the fact that I tell my awkward story to a lot of people bears testimony to my attitude and personality.
2.1) A year ago, it amuses me whenever people find out that Rod is my brother. Today, I’m something of a parlor game: “Hey guess how old Pam is.”
3) Mighty mighty home remedies. I fought off a sore throat with hot water and salt. Going out tonight to Bryant Park did me some good. I walked around the city with awesome company and got to breathe in fresh air. My sniffles went away but now that I’m back home, they’re back. What.
4) We are writing we are writing we are writing. Tomorrow, or rather 8 hours from now, I am going to try to squeeze in the following before leaving the house: Yoga, a breathing exercise, vocalizing and finishing a crochet order. I am leaving the house to meet up with Saida, who I am a committed writing accountability partner to. I don’t think I’m bringing my laptop though. I’m bringing knitting and crochet needles, a thing of yarn, and my finished chunky circle scarf.
5) The hustle. Job hunting is slowly making sense to me. My aunt called from South Carolina and we talked a little bit about the whole process. I admit that I was so discouraged and stopped for more than a week. Job hunting is a process and there is an art to it. Come to think of it, this makes job hunting in the Philippines boring.
6) I ought to blame this on the progesterone.This week has been way-too-much-cute-guys week. Too much. And seeing fire trucks aren’t helping any. I might just wave at a firefighter if I cross the street in front of one of their trucks. I don’t know who’s at fault, me for not getting here earlier or them for not showing up since I got here. Either way, none of it is meant to be. By the qwert of yuiop.
6.1) I met Michael for the second time tonight. To say that Michael is cute is an understatement. “So you’re from the Philippines?” he asks. “Yeah, I was raised there” I replied. “So which Philippines are you from? It sounds like there are so many.” I think I slapped his arm and said “You know, I never thought of that. You’re smart. And cute.” I vaguely remember telling him he was cute, but he is charming enough to be aware of that.
7) Oh Universe. You so funny. So I run a search somewhere online, and I realize a coincidence. A coincidence that may or may not need some soul searching. Someone needs a reading?
8) It felt like home, even though we were at a Korean deli place.Tonight’s hang out remnant witnessed awesome conversation, which I really really really miss. I honestly miss talking to people at a random spot until it closes. I honestly felt like I was back at home, where I left off my cul de sac gang. It sucks that one of them was supposed to be a roommate and isn’t and it sucks that other one can read and play music for me but lives all the way in Brooklyn. None of those are problems, really. I think I made a connection tonight. Thanks guys, you know who you are. Now, all we have to do is do pure vodka one night, and then play Taboo on another night.
9) When have I had a Sunday that wasn’t boring? Second to the last item! Sunday was all kinds of cray cray. Maybe it’s because it’s the day our pastor turns the same age as when Jesus died and wore a tie to show for it. I met a street musician and vaguely flirted with him. On top of that, I went to three different book stores and DID NOT, I REPEAT DID. NOT. buy a book. Nor did I go to a Starbucks. I did buy much needed leggings. I actually bought something I need. The Lord is coming omg. Aside from that, I made a connection with someone at the line for the 8 pm service at Iriving Plaza. I’d avoid gloating, but my big sister tendencies were fulfilled. I love loving on people, and I KNOW I’m drawn to certain people for a reason, even if it means just hearing them out.
10) Fate. This week witnessed me being asked “Do you write songs?” for the third time in a month. This month, I got lost on the 1 train and asked the Universe for a sign about it, and I found myself right in the face of Julliard at Lincoln Center. This was also the month where I freaked myself out exceeding myself at vocal warm ups. Recently, I think I dreamt of Edgardo again. We were chilling in his living room up in the sky, talking about, I assume, the Aquino-Cojuangco Forever video, Occupy Wall Street and my fascination with tall skinny white men. I wish I could say that he served us vodka and he wore his pacemaker around his neck like a boss.
I hadn’t realized that it’s been a little over a year since I wasn’t cast in a show that I thought I wanted to be in. Those who know me well were surprised that I actually cried over this one. I hardly ever cried in my life at least until that point. Funnier still, I was crying and I had no idea why.
It’s just a casting. I’m still alive. I was crying because somehow my body knew what was going on and left my brain to figure everything out on its own. Like something other than my own desires knew better. Like my body craved for an epiphany.
I’m actually composing an email to someone and it contains an apology and an account of certain things. This post is supplement to that email because I feel that I have to let it out to the world anyway. More importantly, I’m also writing this to build a framework of grace in my own story because every time this comes up, I feel gross. And gross isn’t the life I want to live or believe in. Bitterness is no story to weave.
Just thinking about writing about these things is painful. Not being cast was like a hit to my gut or like muscle cramps in both calves. I was so lost in not being cast but knowing that I’ll be leaving for New York six months later, I thought I’d start anew and forget everything.
Last Sunday at Hillsong, Carl said
No matter how lost you feel in the wild, God will always remember what you look like.
Feeling forgotten, and despairing at the time I would have spent doing something else, I thought that I’d quit. That quitting theater and singing altogether would do me good. That I had no future in performing. Besides, I was sitting in the midst of a theater company and no one was making use of my worth. I was believing that I was worthless.
Then someone found me.
When Carl yelled shared his message last Sunday, I knew exactly what he was talking about. He was talking about this epic voice teacher who heard me one Sunday, after a mall show that our family provided rehearsal space for. Edgardo Crisol introduced himself to Micko. Micko then introduced me to him. Edgardo took us to be curiosities. New voices to hear. New challenges. He appraised me.
“Talk to me,” Mr. Crisol said. I vaguely remember talking about my life after college, hopefully leading to how I ended up in theater but before I was starting to lose sense, he raised a hand like wizards do when they’ve heard enough.
He asked “Do you sing? Are you a singer?”
“Yes, I sing.”
He turned to one of his students standing next to him, a young tenor, and said “Do you hear that? She has a deep speaking voice but you can hear the high timbre of her head tone. And her speaking voice is velvety.” He turned to me again. “Very velvety. Do you sing soprano?”
“Yes.”
He took a breath and spoke some more. “You are a natural lyric soprano,” He said. He was pointing a finger at me as he spoke, telling me this as if I was at fault for not knowing this information since kindergarten. “Like Kiri Te Kanawa. Velvety and fine. Run a search on her so you have an idea.” Sparing no awkward moment, he offered an invitation. “I hope that you and Micko would sit down and have voice lessons with me. You would make a great team.” (Micko is one of my best friends. We were already a team!)
That was all I needed. Someone who heard me. Someone who knew better. Someone like Edgardo Crisol who took the time to be curious about me and actually tell me what I am. By the time he asked me to talk to him, he already knew what I had. He knew what I could do. He knew what kind of songs I could sing. I looked up Kiri Te Kanawa that evening and thought “he heard that?”
Singing warm ups at the top of every lesson informed him of various things. Like if I was having my period, or if I was tired. If I was sleep deprived or if I’m adjusting to November temperature changes. He also figured that I had anger issues. He figured this out in the middle of my first session.
He was exasperated about those anger issues. At the first session, he was getting me to reach a high E flat. I couldn’t reach a high E flat and he was making me reach it because he could hear it “There’s something there. There’s something there,” he insisted.
“I’m thinking of the note but I can’t figure it out,” which is how I work when I sing. I hear the note, I think about it and sing it. Like how your brain will always know that the letter “A” is the letter A. He did say that that there was one good thing that I have going for me: “You have a very good ear for music. Very good.” But there was something keeping me for from that E flat. I could hear it. I know what it sounds like but I couldn’t get it out.
Finally, he hit the nail on the head. “You have anger issues!” he said. “But come on. I know you have it. Show up, PJ.”
I’m trying to get reach something I should physically reach with my voice and I’m learning that my anger is an obstacle. I was confused. I was sweating and clueless. I could feel my throat expanding. My voice is bouncing around every crack in my skull. I’ve been singing since I was five but I have never gone through anything like this. It was like my soul was being laid bare, like was being stripped naked.
Then he couldn’t let it get past him. He let go of his keyboard in surrender and said “PJ, come on. Let’s have it. You’re very angry. What’s going on? Tell me, ano ba yan?” I turned to Micko who was hiding his face in his music. Micko knew everything but I’m sure he didn’t see this coming. I gave Edgardo the bottom line. My thoughts stuttered but he listened. At the end of it, I couldn’t wait to see what else he could get out of me, what else he thought I could actually do. Sundays were amazing and Micko and I figured that at some point, we’d already become friends with him.
I’ve only known him for five months and the last time I saw him was in April. He was at his sharpest, most energetic, and most witty, which is the way he would have wanted to be remembered.
He didn’t make it to the recital he urged for me to have. He died before we could even send him a burnt cd of the show. He died about two weeks after my recital, almost exactly a month before I arrive in New York.
Mine was the last recital that he would have seen. They say he waited for me. They say I was his last investment before leaving this earth. Strangely, our visits prompted him to organize his files into folders and there was a constant issue with last pages in his photocopied sheet music for us. Little things that foreshadow. Later on, we found out that he knew he was going to die soon but never told us.
On my first day of lessons, he said that performance has got to do with self-confrontation. You have to deal with yourself before you go out to an audience. You have to deal with yourself. The evening after he passed, I decided to get up on my feet and face the object of my anger. That was the last time I saw the theater company I dedicated myself to for five years. I never intended to see them again, but as a small celebration of his legacy in my life and for my own sake, I faced facing them. And it went well.
The timing and circumstance of our first meeting and the timing of his death defined not only what I should do in New York, but also what I should be doing to my life. One of them is to sing, which I’ve been doing without fail. Another is to write.
I’ve been keeping this story from being written because I’ve always been pissed off and passive aggressively angry every time it comes up even in conversation. I feel like shit thinking about everything and I was sick and tired of that feeling.
Obviously, I’m writing about it right now but it’s taken me almost 24 hours. How do you organize grace into words when you don’t have grace just yet? How do you organize pain into words when your story conjures bitterness and words are the very things that are hard to come by? How can I tell this story without offending anyone?
Then again this is my story. I’ve been offended for far too long and I have moved on, as they have. The words will come and hopefully, grace will be attached to them. For all I know, they didn’t know any better and still don’t know any better the same way I have no idea what will become of me here in New York. At least one of us is excited for me and the healing is just about to begin.
