Storytelling: A Temporary Epilogue

1

Now—on my third hour aboard Japan Airlines flight 745, on my 23^rd hour in transit since being dropped off at JFK International Airport for my trip home, and with two more hours between now and Manila soil—my journey is about to come to an end.

When I set out on this ten-day trip, I had three simple objectives: first, to undergo the audition and interview process at Berklee; second, to get to know the school and the city of Boston a little better; and third, to have a grand time in New York.

Now, I’m heading home with so much more than I bargained to gain.

The truth is, a much bigger concern than my audition and interview built up inside me early in the trip. Words like “practicality”, “sustainability” and “realism” starting to clamor in my head like the banging of pots and pans.

It started when I told Jett about my plans for earning extra money while studying at Berklee. I told her that I would write freelance for any Boston magazine, website or advertising agency that would take me.

But then Jett told me that, with a student visa, the only place you can work is the school—where pay starts at US$8 an hour, where job options are limited (Jett herself does web development for the school), and where there’s a cap to the number of hours you can work in a week. That isn’t much, when you think that the subway costs US$1.25, a Starbucks latte costs US$4, a fastfood meal costs around US$10, a CD costs US$15, a Broadway ticket costs US$120, a studio apartment starts at US$900 a month, and a roundtrip ticket to Manila costs US$1,200.

And then, while having lunch with Jett at the Berklee cafeteria, I realized, looking around at the people, that Berklee is a college, not a graduate school—hence, I would be surrounded by kids out of high school, 14 years younger than me; whose most-used word was “cool”; and whose conversations went: “That’s so cool.” “Yeah, it’s really dope.” “Okay, gotta split.” “Awesome.” And I genuinely wondered if I could take it.

Sure, I would be “pursuing my passion” and “following my dreams”. But romantic as it sounded—and as much good vibes I had been getting from friends and family the past months—what it would mean in reality was now staring me in the face.

I would be giving up everything I had worked my ass off for the past 11 years: a fully-furnished condo with more space than I needed; a car with more free gas than I could use; a great job in a great company, where I had earned the respect of my team, my colleagues, and my superiors; a very decent monthly salary that let me shop, eat out, work out and travel pretty much whenever I pleased; easy access to laundry services and cleaning ladies who made life so convenient; and the nearness of family and friends whom I could connect with, and whose opinions I respected.

In place of all these comforts, I would be settling for a small room, probably sharing it with a stranger, and worrying each month about rent; mastering the bus and subway routes; learning to cook my own meals, do my own laundry, clean my own house; and having to take what would probably be an unglamorous, unexciting, low-paying job just so I could eat out, hang out with friends, watch movies, and use a gym from time to time. I would be starting from scratch earning the respect of fellow students and faculty who had never heard of me, and rebuilding a circle of friends who would make me feel at home, half a world away. And in this country, I would be at a natural disadvantage because of my visa status, my nationality, my ethnicity, my accent, and let’s face it, my height.

I couldn’t help but recall that, in August 2009, I had resigned from a rosy career in a brainy environment in one of the world’s top corporations, to pursue what I thought then was my fundamental passion for marketing communications—and that it had turned out to be a mind-eroding seven-month disaster that turned me into the prodigal son, running home to the tune of “I told you so’s”.

In short, I was asking myself: What the hell am I doing? What on earth is going to become of me? And—still scarred from my farcical 2009 career shift—is this all going to be worth it?

And that’s where the many hours I had spent talking to friends this trip—extremely unusual for my typically anti-social self, as I had said in a previous entry—came into play.

2

“Practically every Pinoy here has a story to tell about how he or she started out.”

That’s what Lance, an old friend from Hangad and my host while in Boston, said as he shared his own story.

Lance, one of the smartest people I know, graduated from UP-PGH, passed the Philippine medical boards, and passed the US Medical Licensure Exams which would let him practice Medicine in the US. But during his first four months in the US, while sending out residency applications and undergoing interviews at different hospitals around the country, the need for day-to-day funds, as well as funds for trips to his interviews, compelled him to take a phone-answering administrative job in California, for which he was overqualified and underpaid.

To save as much of his salary as he could, and to avoid being a burden to his family back home, Lance had found lodging in the garage of a house, which he rented for US$100 a month; where he would roll out a sleeping bag on the cold concrete floor every night; and which would require a three-hour bus ride to and from work—that is, three hours each way, each day. Further, most of the food he ate was the food at the office; and to keep in touch with family and friends in Manila, he would stay for hours after work each night to get free access to Facebook and YM.

Just when his funds were about to run out, Lance was interviewed at a hospital in New Jersey—where, serendipitously, his interviewer had also graduated from PGH—and he was hired outright. Incidentally, of the hospitals Lance applied for, this was one of those he liked best. Everything just fell into place so perfectly, he recalls, that when he got the news of his acceptance, he broke into tears.

Lance eventually became the hospital’s chief resident for pediatrics; he moved to Boston soon after completing his residency; and today, he is listed as one of the Boston’s top 200 pediatricians. Further, he works only two days a week; and best of all, he has earned enough respect from his colleagues to come to work in a track suit every day.

3

Chad and Leanne, who had invited me to join Hangad in 1995 and who took me to dinner on my last night in New York, had a story to tell as well.

Chad had taken his MBA at Boston College after several years of working with Citibank in Manila, shortly after he and Leanne got married. After finishing his MBA, he had a year to find a job, or else his student visa status would force him to return to the Philippines. He had been confident at first—he did have an MBA—but it was 2004, America was still recovering from the impact of 9/11, and working visas for non-Americans were scarce.

Six months passed, Chad hadn’t yet found a job, and their funds were running short—so much so that he and Leanne, who was also in Boston taking a business program at Harvard, would decline friends’ invitations for dinners out, walk instead of taking the subway, poke their fingers into subway token dispensers in hopes of finding forgotten tokens, and keep their eyes peeled for coins on the street (and many times, actually find a total of US$2 in one walk).

(“Talaga?! Si Chad?!” I had exclaimed, slack-jawed and wide-eyed in shock and deepened admiration, knowing Chad the way I did back in college. Leanne replied, laughing: “Oo, kaya nga ang bait na niyan ngayon.”)

Leanne, who had also been a Citibanker in Manila, worked as a receptionist and filing clerk at Harvard’s admission and aid office; the modest amount she earned was barely enough for groceries. A ray of hope shone when George Bush, out of nowhere, opened 20,000 working visas for MBA and graduate students, which enabled Chad to interview for Ernst & Young in Boston and New York; but even so, the response took so long to come, that they fell back into discouragement.

Just when Chad and Leanne had given up on the East Coast—all their furniture had been sold, and they were ready to move in with Chad’s relatives in California and try their luck there for another six months—on Christmas Eve, of all dates, came the FedEx package from Ernst & Young in New York, telling Chad that he had gotten the job. Though they had had to stay home while their friends watched the annual Boston Pops Christmas Eve concert, it was okay—this was the best Christmas gift they could ask for.

Today, Chad works in Times Square, Leanne works on Fifth Avenue, Chad drives a killer SUV, and they recently bought an apartment by the Hudson in New Jersey, with a clear view of the Manhattan skyline.

“Living here teaches you to swallow your pride and forget the elitist biases you learned in the Philippines,” Leanne said over dinner. Just as Lance lived in a garage, and Chad and Leanne walked instead of taking the subway, Mia, a close college friend taking her PhD at Boston College, operates the photocopier at the college library to earn extra money while studying; and Jeans, a high school friend, was a waitress at Cheesecake Factory. Mia and Jeans—like Lance, Chad and Leanne—were top students from good schools, who had lived very comfortable lives in Manila.

4

And even as Lance got an interview with a fellow PGH alumnus, and Chad got his hiring letter on Christmas Eve, close college friend Mhir also has her own little miracle story.

While taking a masters in International Political Economics and Development at Fordham University, Mhir had started writing fiction for fun. One night, on a whim, she Googled book publishers in New York; e-mailed one of those she found, asking how to go about submitting a manuscript (apologetically, at that, saying she was an “unpublished author”). To her surprise, she received a response to her manuscript; to her greater surprise, the response was an offer to be published. Today, a year after graduating from Fordham, her book is on Amazon, and she is back in New York, working on publicity and distribution for the book while looking for a job in development.

“You’re a published author! In New York!” I exclaimed to Mhir over coffee. “Do you know what that means?! Do you realize how many people would kill to be able to say, ‘I’m a published author in New York’?”

Mhir just laughed. From when it was happening up to today, she can’t believe it either.

5

On my last night in Boston, having dinner with Jett after a just-for-fun recording session at the school, I had asked her, “Are the students smart? I mean, is there anyone you can talk to—that is, about things other than music?”

Jett, who is the type of person who actually does say nothing at all when she has nothing nice to say, was silent for a few moments. I forced a deflated laugh and said, “Oh well. It is a music school.”

And then, a memory grabbed her; and she started to tell me about her friend, Naomi, who held a degree in International Relations from Brown University and who, like Jett (who has a degree in Psychology from Ateneo), was now was taking a second degree in Music Production and Engineering at Berklee.

And at that moment, who should walk into the burger joint but Naomi herself, diminutive and chirpy. I learned, after we were introduced, that she’s part of the school’s musical theater club, and was in a production of The Vagina Monolgues the week before.

“Ooh! I love The Vagina Monologues! Which one did you do?” I asked.

“The ‘Down There’ one,” Naomi replied. “Have you seen the play?”

“Yup. Once. And I have the book,” I said. “I’d love to do ‘The Little Coochie-Snorcher That Could’!”

Naomi laughed. “Yeah, you could probably wear a wig or something.”

“Of course not!” I retorted. “I’ll go onstage like this. I can be Sinead O’ Connor.”

A few more moments of quick, energized small talk, and I learned that, after graduation from Brown, Naomi had worked as journalist in Europe before coming to Boston; and now, she hosts a news and information show on Berklee’s student-run radio network.

At that instant, I knew I had found someone whom I’d probably want as a friend—and in my gut, I was sure that, as long as I kept an open mind to the people around me, there are more Naomis to be found.

6

Throughout my stay, I learned more and more that I would never be alone while living in Boston. For one thing, I hardly had to pay for my meals while I was there, with both old and new friends constantly insisting on footing the bill.

“I’m still working, you know,” I would say, with both embarrassment and gratitude. “I’m not an impoverished student yet. I still have a salary.”

“But you’re a visitor,” they would reply. “You can repay us when you’re done at Berklee.”

“Fine,” I would say. “I’ll remember this when I’ve won my Oscar.”

Generosity is in abundant supply among Filipinos who have made it there—not only with meals, but also in opening doors to kababayans who need a place to stay. Chad, upon getting a job at Ernst & Young, had moved to New York and lived with an uncle he had never met; Leanne, who stayed behind in Boston to finish the final semester of her program, roomed with a couple of Filipinos she had only met there. And Lance calls his apartment a hotel, with Filipinos passing through town always welcome in his guest room—“dahil naaalala ko kung paano ako nag-umpisa.”

And rehearsing with the warm, welcoming Boston Filipino choir at Lance’s house, and meeting the broader Filipino community at Mass two days later—many of who, allegedly, are so accomplished in their fields that even Americans get intimidated—I knew I had found a family-to-be, half the world away.

7

Of course, I just had to learn something from GP—after all, during Hangad’s US tour last November, it was he who sealed my decision to try out for Berklee.

GP graduated from Ateneo High School a year after I did; proceeded to college in UP, then Ateneo, then finally Berklee, where he graduated summa cum laude and delivered his batch’s valedictory address. Today, GP works at St Peter’s Prep School, a Jesuit-run private boys’ school in New Jersey, where he is loved by his students, co-faculty, and school administrators alike for his work as music teacher and head of the school’s glee club. On top of that, he has written music that was used in the score of Days of Our Lives, leads a parish choir in New York, and plays the piano for four Masses every Sunday.

Musicians in the US do have a future, said GP—yes, even church musicians. To illustrate, he said, “David Haas (the man behind ‘Now We Remain’) is a very rich man.”

GP told me how American choirs are conscientious about copyright law, and hence don’t photocopy scores but instead pay for original copies for every choir member. He told me how much one gets paid to lead a choir. He told me how much you can charge a choir that commissions an arrangement. He told me how much you can get paid for playing the piano for a Mass. And he told me that once a song you wrote gets published, you’re made—because unlike in the Philippines, where singers are the stars, songwriters in the US earn more than the singers.

Mikee, a Boston-based friend of GP who was in New York when I visited, who does musical theater and sings in choirs alongside working in a hospital lab, also told me the standard rate for performing a song, even if it’s for a church service; and that you can actually become a professional choir member, paid to sing in a choir, as he is.

“Lots of the stuff you do in Philippines for free, you can get paid for in the US,” said GP. “And if you’re uncomfortable about this being a ‘ministry’, then look at it this way: you’re doing music full-time, it’s your living. In the same way, a doctor, no matter how kind he is, can’t treat patients for free all the time.”

8

In the first few days of my trip, I started questioning the wisdom of pushing life’s reset button on a social networking site. Ritchie, one of my oldest friends, said: “Look closely at the button. It doesn’t say ‘reset’. It says ‘grow’.”

As much anxiety as the idea of resetting brings, the stories I gathered over my ten days in the US convince me that this journey can only change me for the better. There’s so much character to build, so much patience to muster, so many survival instincts to sharpen, so many odds to overcome, so many people to meet, so much about life to learn, so many blessings to discover. There will be times I will hit rock bottom; there will be a time things will fall into place; and there will never be a time I will be alone in this journey.

On the way to the airport on the day of my departure, I excitedly told Tito Joey and Tita Tere, our family friends and my New York hosts, about all these stories of adversity and blessings and success, and how they had allayed my initial worries and cemented my conviction that I’m doing the right thing.

“That’s great,” they said. “But remember, it will be different as a musician. Your lifestyle won’t be as comfortable or predictable as when you’re working in P&G.”

That’s all right, I said. After all—as I had said in my Berklee application—my love for music has outlasted any company, industry, career path, field, interest, and relationship I’ve ever been in; and it has given me more joy and fulfillment than anything my “practical” life has given me.

Music, I said, is what I was born to do.

After Tita Tere hugged me goodbye at the airport, she put her hands on my shoulders, looked at me at arm’s length, and said: “I want to sing to you.”

“What do you mean, Tita?” I asked.

“On a clear day,” she said, beaming with pride, “you can see forever.”

And so cue On a Clear Day. Or Corner of the Sky. Something’s Coming. Defying Gravity. Out There. Just Around the Riverbend. A Piece of Sky. Cue these anthems of characters who, through the decades, have inspired dreamers who caught a glimpse of something bigger and better, and chased madly after it, without really knowing where it would lead. These characters don’t just exist in movies and musicals; with the stories like I learned, they’re all around us.

And they’ve convinced me, on this clear, crazy day, to dive headfirst into forever, and let my own story start to unfold.