My secret corporate angst

Parts of this entry were originally an e-mail to my teammates in P&G Brand Operations, sent to them a few days after my last day at work. I edited it a bit for public consumption a few days ago. I’m posting this from Narita while waiting for my flight to Chicago; and though the timing may seem weird, well, it’s already done and ready for posting, so what the hell; and who knows, it may actually be indicative of something coming. ;)

I’ll let you in on a secret that I used to tell only my closest friends: for the first ten years of my twelve-plus years in corporate life, I struggled to reconcile the ideals of "goodness",  "giving", "service", and "others" with the capitalist world.  

Just as a bit of background: I emerged from college extremely idealistic. When I graduated in 1999, after 15 years of Ateneo education, I wholeheartedly embraced Ateneo’s “man for others” and “magis” mantras. Blame it on taking Philosophy of the Human Person, Philosophy of Religion, and Theology of Liberation way too seriously; on being an active member of religious and socially-oriented school orgs (and not a single business org); on playing, singing and writing inspirational music for retreats and Masses throughout half of high school and all of college; and coming from a family that’s not at all corporate, barely entrepreneurial, and big on social change. To tell the truth, if circumstances had been different in 1999, I would have attended the seniors’ eight-day silent retreat, tried out for the Jesuit Volunteers of the Philippines, and even undergone the Jesuit vocation seminar.

Instead, in a need to be practical (i.e., no more allowance from my parents after graduation and a future to build for my then-partner and myself), I chose to conform to the typical Atenean route and pursue the typical Atenean model of success by carving out a name for myself in the corporate realm (“maybe just for a few years”, I told myself). What surprises awaited me and my idealism there! At my first company, a corporate foundation, the managing director was so intent on making the foundation self-sustaining that she emphasized revenue-generation over the social development and arts and culture programs that were the heart of the foundation’s mission. At my first real corporate job at a company under one of the country’s most prestigious conglomerates, “home-grown talent” was a misnomer: entering at low levels was a dead end, and the best way to advance was to be pirated from a multinational company, qualifications and competence notwithstanding. At my third company, P&G, though employee practices and corporate social responsibility were much more robust and conscientious, everything still boiled down to growing sales volume and market share. And when I moved to a local company in bright-eyed hopes of bringing some of what I had learned from working with a multinational, imagine my dismay when I fought for salary adjustments for my grossly underpaid staff, arguing that they might leave because their rates were way below industry rates, and management’s response was: “That’s okay, if they leave, then we can hire fresh new blood." (Interestingly, both the second and fourth companies I described listed “primacy of employees”, or something to that effect, among their precious corporate values.)

And so, over the ten years I was with these four companies, I wondered: how did making a better life, whether for employees or for the world in general, fit into the agenda of big business, beyond organizational brainwashing, pretty corporate newsletters and posters in office lobbies, tax exemptions, and glowing PR? Was “caring for employees” just a manipulative means to an end? Was it even possible to be a corporate individual and do genuine and meaningful good in one’s work? How did the intent of authentically making life better fit into a milieu where the bottom line was the bottom line?  

Not to say I was totally unhappy. I had lots of great friends among my colleagues, I enjoyed most of what I did on a day-to-day basis, I learned a tremendous lot, and I can’t deny that I enjoyed the money and other perks. But at every retreat or recollection I attended, my existentialist side would emerge, point an accusing finger at me, and ask: Is this all there is? “You’re funding your passion,” were the words from a colleague, in reference to doing corporate work alongside making music with Hangad, that I usually used to quiet the guilt and restlessness. It worked, at times; though I can’t deny that the guilt and restlessness, quiet as they were, were still there.

But things were different when I rejoined P&G, to lead the in-store sales force—commonly known as “promoters”, “promodisers”, or “push-girls” for brands ranging from Olay to Tide to Downy to Pantene to Safeguard to Pampers, and in retail environments ranging from department store beauty sections to provincial wholesalers—which was undergoing significant expansion and hence receiving lots of management attention and scrutiny. Sure, my first order of business was to ensure the sales force generated enough growth to make financial sense. But month after month, as I became more and more immersed in the program, I learned that this first order of business, on paper, did not have to be the final order of business.

Now one may think that managing promoters is as simple as putting a warm body at a supermarket shelf and making her stand there for eight hours a day, six days a week. But that’s just the surface. The challenge emerges in enabling these individuals to dialogue with shoppers about their brands, assertively and convincingly but still likably; and more than that, ensuring that these sellers do their work with the same level of proficiency and quality, whether they’re in Rustan’s Shangri-La or Mindpro Supermarket Zamboanga. Factor in the size and dispersion of the sales force, the frequency at which they have to learn about new products, the need to control costs, and the fact that no two shoppers, retailers, stores, or promoters are exactly alike—and there you have a huge complex equation.

Yet we worked to build and strengthen the program into a recognized success. And as we did so, we saw, first, that as the program expanded and extended, it was creating jobs and giving more and more people a steady livelihood. Next, as program design became more sophisticated, the bar was raised and the program started to challenge people to stretch themselves beyond their comfort zones—and hence, learn more, be more, and surprise everyone, including themselves. At the same time, we found areas with some flexibility in cost, and with this, were able to introduce variable compensation and recognition programs that meaningfully rewarded individuals for their achievements, giving them additional livelihood on one hand, but also a huge feeling of personal value. And lastly, as the organization grew and needed more layers, with more and more emphasis being placed on leadership and ownership at all levels, there came the realization that we were creating not only jobs but also careers—ways for people to advance.

And out of all this came the fulfillment in what I’ve never been ashamed to call the most fulfilling job I’ve ever had. More than the program’s business results, the recognition it received from P&G’s regional and global officers, the creativity and attention to detail I was able to put into it, and the power I wielded, fulfillment came from leading a program that made a difference in the lives of over 1,000 people.

If people repeatedly described me and my work as “passionate”, it was exactly because of this. Passion was fueled by the knowledge that this program was giving over a thousand individuals a chance at an honest, steady living; by seeing individuals go beyond themselves and get better and better at what they did; by seeing people moving up; by helping people feel valued and appreciated, not only as cogs in a money-making machine but as individuals; by simply entertaining people, giving them a good time at what could easily have been just another boring meeting; and yes, even by learning that individuals were leaving the program because they had earned enough money to go back to school, or had grown their skills enough to find a better job. Tiring and frustrating as things would get at times, all this kept me going.

  

So, finally, in my last two years in the corporate world, my long-running inner turmoil was finally put to rest, and a month ago I left the corporate world with a heart light and full. Hopefully corporate readers who have the same restlessness in their hearts as I did—maybe they took Philosophy and Theology too seriously, too—will take heart knowing that, yes, successfully caring for others is possible alongside successful corporate results, as better business becomes a vehicle to help more and more people. On any CEO’s financial sheet, people is the means and profit is the end—but in how you do your own work, you really have the power to flip it around. 

Intangible, irreplaceable, impossible Luang Prabang

Buying myself a plane ticket to Luang Prabang for my last birthday had been something of a gamble.

Yes, I had read in guidebooks and websites that this city at the meeting of two rivers in a valley in Northern Laos was “the most charming place in all of Southeast Asia” and “one of Southeast Asia’s most alluring destinations.” I knew that the New York Times placed it at the top of their list of “Places to Go” in 2008, and that readers’ polls of some European travel publications had voted it as the best city in the world to visit. And I knew that the city itself was a UNESCO world heritage site.

Still, I had a very vague idea of what was actually there. Photos showed temples, monks, waterfalls, rice fields, and elephants—but aren’t all those available in other parts of Southeast Asia anyway (which, incidentally, are easier to get to from Manila)? I had never met anyone whose must-travel-to-during-my-lifetime list included Luang Prabang, and I only knew only two people who had actually been there (and even they just said, It’s really nice, but nothing else). Reviews gushed about the city’s “intangible laid-back atmosphere”, and said "people planning to stay only a few days end up staying two weeks", but said nothing really concrete to make me say, Aaaah, that’s why I’m going. Even just a few days before the trip, I anxiously thought—what if the Southeast Asian countryside is all very charming to Westerners, but I’ll find it’s just the same as Tatay’s hometown in Compostela Valley, two hours north from Davao?

Vagueness and anxiety and possible disappointment notwithstanding, sucker for reviews and awards that I am, I booked the ticket and pushed through with the trip, joined by four friends for whom the reviews were just as convincing.

After five days in Luang Prabang, none of us had any regrets. Because what a trip it was!

The evening we arrived, we walked through the night market near our hotel, checking out colorful handwoven and hand-embroidered fabrics, cotton pants, stuffed toys, and other native crafts. Apart from the unusual wares and the cool night air, what was remarkable was how relaxed and quiet the night market was—so much so that shopkeepers’ children sleep soundly in their stalls! No shouting, no arguing, no jostling, no furiously waving calculators at tourists. Just a gentle “hello” and a shy smile whenever you would stop in front of a stall, and a few English words (“please, you buy, lucky for me”) from a merchant trying to make the sale.

Our second day was filled with package tour activities, the first of which was an elephant ride. This elephant ride was like none I’d ever seen before. No corral, no smell; and for me and Nicole, no saddle, no harness, and no reins. We rode on the backs of our elephants’ bare necks, legs dangling behind the elephants’ ears and hands on the top of the elephants' bristly heads, as the gentle giants walked along forest paths, up and down hilly dirt roads, and even into the Mekong. Later, as we were having lunch on a low hill by the river, the elephants stood right by, untied and free to roam, giving themselves a shower with water from a pail, and allowing us to stroke them, feed them, hug their trunks, and have a blast taking photos with them.

Also on our second day package tour were a trip to a “whiskey village” (we were offered a shot, but none of us dared take it—maybe because the shotglass was offered from behind a row of bottles containing snakes and scorpions?); a visit to the buddha-filled Pak Ou caves along the Mekong river; and lastly, a visit to the Luang Prabang tourist highlight, the multi-leveled Luang Prabang Kuang Xi waterfalls, where my four friends bathed in the cold water while I wandered upstream to take photos.

On the way back to the city at the end of the day two package tour, I asked our tour guide what else there was to do in Luang Prabang. He said with a laugh: “You’ve seen the elephants, the caves, and the waterfalls. There’s nothing more to do in Luang Prabang!”

“Really?” I asked, somewhat panicked. “So why do so many people stay so long in Luang Prabang?”

His reply was quick, matter-of-fact, and filled with mystique and pride: “The heritage.”

His answer was strange then and there, but we understood what he meant over the next two and a half days. Having completed the “must-do” tourist activities over a blur of a second day, we spent our remaining days ambling through the city at a slow, relaxed pace (the most relaxed I’ve ever been traveling); trying the food (very similar to Thai food) and the coffee; taking time to wander, get lost, and find our way again; talking to people; and just soaking it all in. As we did, our tour guide’s “heritage”—as well as all the “atmosphere” that the books had talked about—started to unfold before our eyes.

First of all, for such a small city, Luang Prabang has an amazing number of temples. They line the city’s main streets with their graceful silhouettes and elaborate trim. Even steep Phou Si hill, at the heart of the city, has a garden of sacred buddha images and elaborate naga-bannistered staircases on one side, and a temple at its summit. What’s remarkable is that most of these temples aren’t show temples—they’re live temples, where monks actually live and pray and study in the courtyards, and where locals actually kneel and light incense and offer food. With so much activity in these temples, the structures are far from perfect—cracked walls, faded gold paint, chipped mosaics, dried leaves on the ground. But rather than looking run-down or poorly maintained, this creates an antiquated air that adds to the city’s spiritual atmosphere.

With all these temples comes a large population of monks—books say Luang Prabang has over 600—and though they begin to become commonplace after a few days in town, they still are a sight to behold, with their shaved heads and eyebrows and their saffron robes. We saw them walking briskly along the streets and along the river; we saw them sweeping flagstones and talking intently to western visitors in their courtyards; and one afternoon, my friend Nicole and I were able to closely observe their sunset prayers, sitting just outside the doorway of one temples through a 20-minute chant.

Twice too we were able to witness the monk’s dawn procession, when they pour out of their temples with their begging bowls to collect alms from women kneeling on mats along the roadside. Cynics would assume it’s a commercial gimmick for tourists, but Lao people still do regard it as a highly traditional and deeply spiritual activity.

Luang Prabang is also unbelievably, no, impossibly pure. If any other country had been given the top honor in a "places to go” list, its roads and riverbanks would by now be lined with gardens, its shophouses would be sparkingly restored, and safety and comfort measures for tourist attractions would be impeccable. But Luang Prabang is not built to impress: it is unflashy, unmanicured, uncontrived. I already mentioned the authentic, lived-in temples; alongside these are tastefully restored French colonial buildings and old wooden Lao buildings, all of which are still in use as well as hotels, restaurants, shops, and government buildings; dirt roads and overgrown foliage (yes, even in the city center); and a large Royal-Palace-turned-National-Museum that uses only natural ventilation and requires you leave your footwear at the door.

Add to that how the city remains unadulterated by the west. Imagine a place with no Starbucks, no McDonald’s (and no fastfood for that matter), no multinational hotel chains, no supermarkets, no shopping malls, no buildings above four stories high, no outdoor advertising, no beauty products, and no designer brands? The sole western logos are Visa and Mastercard signs in hotels and restaurants, occasional Western snacks and personal care items at roadside groceries, ubiquitous jars of Nutella at every sidewalk baguette stand, and a single Kodak outlet (that operates purely on trust, with no claim stub system for photos printing). In Luang Prabang, you stay in old houses turned into guesthouses and hotels; you eat and drink lovingly prepared food, fruit shakes, iced tea and coffee; you shop at open-fronted stores along the streets; and you shop for things not because of their brand, but because they charm you.

With a city this pure, the people are naturally some of the gentlest, most easygoing, most uncomplicated you’ll ever meet. Sure, they’re not warm and effusive; some might even come across as rude or antipatiko because of their lack of English proficiency (I read that a lot of them are actually shy and embarrassed at poor grasp of English). I mentioned that Luang Prabang's night market is the quietest I've ever been to; apart from that are the least pesky touts I've ever encountered, and a simple sense of fun comprising evening videoke and picnics at the falls. These people, it seems, are never malicious, or out to get you, or out to get ahead; and with this, a huge feeling of safety and security follows you everywhere.

Lastly, wandering around the city for two and a half days, you notice how many signs there are all around calling for help for Laos, particularly in the area of literacy. You can’t miss flyers and posters for “Library Boats” and “Book Exchanges.” After all, Laos is one of the poorest countries in the world. (Interestingly and sadly, one travel app also said Laos is “the most bombed country in the world”, with the US dropping more bombs on Laos during the Vietnam War than the US did during all of World War II.)

Of these calls to help Laos, our favorite was an organization called Big Brother Mouse, whose mission is to publish and distribute books to Lao children, towards their vision of improving literacy and creating a love for books in a country where many children have never even seen a book. I had first come across Big Brother Mouse online when researching the trip, and had decided I wanted to visit them. We stumbled upon a Big Brother Mouse bookstall at the night market on our first evening, where the young man watching the stall—himself one of Big Brother Mouse’s book illustrators—sold us bundles of books to give to children while touring the countryside. He also told us that the Big Brother Mouse center welcomed foreign volunteers to help Lao high school and college students practice their English—which is what we decided we would do.

Helping young people practice English was probably one of the memorable parts of our visit to Laos. It’s part question and answer, part helping them figure out and practice the pronunciation and usage of words and phrases they write in their notebooks over the past few days. At the Big Brother Mouse center on the morning of Day 4, our session lasted two hours, with each of us assigned to two young locals. One of the toughest questions I got was, “What’s the difference between ‘just’, ‘just then’, ‘just as’, and ‘just now’?”

That afternoon, when we climbed to the top of Phou Si to see the hilltop temple and enjoy the panoramic view of the city, some of the kids we had met at the Big Brother Mouse center that morning were also there, this time with more of their friends, and we got to chat more. There we learned how clever and eager these kids are. One of them, for instance, lived in a countryside village and traveled an hour to Luang Prabang each day just to speak to foreigners, and develop his gift for languages--he was already conversant in English, French, Korean and Japanese.

The kid I sat with atop Phou Si was a bright and eager high school boy named Her, who picked up words quickly and enunciated very carefully. Apart from his studies in school, he said, he and a few other boys were tutored by an American living in Luang Prabang.

When I asked Her what he wanted to do after high school, he said that he wanted to take an exam to study in Australia. Pleasantly surprised at his ambition and clarity, I asked, What do you want to study?

His answer came in slow and carefully-enunciated English: “I want to come back to Laos after studying in Australia to help Lao develop.” He thought a bit, then continued: “I want to teach people to stop cutting down trees.”

Moved, I asked: Do you know the word “environment”?

He shook his head. So I took his notebook and wrote environment in it. “It’s the trees, the forests, the land, the rivers, the mountains, the air, everything around us,” I explained. “And what you want to be is an environmentalist. Someone who cares for nature.”

He grinned and nodded in agreement.

I hope Her aces his Australian exam. His country needs it, not only because of the present levels of poverty and literacy, but also because Laos is going to boom very soon, and bring with it the downsides of any boom. Already there are signs, with rubbish lining the sidewalks every midnight after the night market has packed up and gone home; and sadly, tourists at the monks’ dawn procession shove cameras in monk’s faces and use their camera flashes despite the many signs around town reminding tourists about the spirituality and solemnity of the ritual. Many publications say that Laos is in a period of rapid economic development, with tourism as the number one driver. And when that development does come, and the west descends on Luang Prabang with fangs and claws bared, keen on exploiting the country’s resources, and infecting its gentle, simple people with a love for profit, acquisition, and other matters of consequence—then Laos will need to have young people to defend it.

I hope Luang Prabang stays as authentic, pure, and gentle as it is—the way the world deserves to experience it—for a long time to come. Sure, it has no iconic landmarks, legendary shopping, awesome theme park, influential art or party scene, or world-renowned cuisine to speak of. But rather than awe or entertain you, this city slows you down, strips you of your defenses, makes you forget yourself, melts your heart, and brings out your simplest, most introspective, kindest self.

Early into the trip, my friends and I asked ourselves if we should have just planned a shorter stay. But at the end, we were all glad we stayed five days. Just like every city, Luang Prabang has its list of things to see and do. But being there for a leisurely few days—taking it in slowly, and allowing it all to sink in, rather than rushing through the checklist and heading off somewhere else, as most tourists tend to do (myself included)—showed us just what the guidebooks were talking about.

2011's Top Ten

What a year it's been.

But since I say anyway every year how this year was so different and extraordinary compared to every other year bla bla bla, I'll just get right to my top 10 for 2011 -- and let the list speak for itself.

10. Mumbai. My work brought me to this city, in all its maddening, overpowering, and overwhelming glory. But unlike other places I've been that merited such adjectives (and wanted to leave just hours after I got off the plane), Mumbai left me fascinated at its foreign-ness; awestruck that the city actually worked, in spite of the chaos; and hungry to experience more of India. I look forward to my next visit -- and next time, I hope I'll have the guts to actually ride the train.

9. Writing. Few people know I was writing long before I was playing the piano -- writing, in fact, was my "special talent" in grade school. I'm glad I was able to go back to it this year -- not as regularly as I'd like ("ang haba mo naman kasi mag-blog", as James once told me), but at least, sufficiently recording what probably will be, when I look back a few years hence, one of the most important years of my life. And who'd ever have thought my editor parents would actually become fans of my writing? -- occasional comments such as "Paulo, there's a dangling modifier in the second paragraph" notwithstanding.

8. "My pretties." Give me a break and let me have a rare moment as a gym bimbo. After all, for the first time in my 10+ years of working out (who'd have guessed, right!?) I finally have deltoids. And biceps. And traps. And you get the idea. Sure, the six-pack and the Davids are still a long way off... but for someone who's never been able to shake off "chubby", this is a big deal.

7. Boston and New York. I already wrote pages and pages about my adventures in these two cities (and my first winter!) last February -- old and new places, old and new friends, and all in all a glimpse of the year(s?) to come.

6. Work. I've said it so many times, and I don't think I'll ever get tired of saying it: no job I've had has been as fun and fulfilling as the one I have now: leading P&G Philippines' army of In-Store Ambassadors. With its unique combination of marketing and human resources, the role finally answered my long-time question, "Why the hell did I spend so much time in HR before discovering marketing was the path for me?" And I don't think anything can ever compare to the creativity, the detail, and the autonomy of the role -- and in 2011, the program's business impact; the opportunity for organization-building; the many recognitions for the program, the team, and the agencies involved; and most of all, the unbelievably talented and hardworking people whom I'm so fortunate to work with, and the many ways the program has helped individuals thrive and grow. Add to all that, having colleagues who are also some of the best friends you'll ever find, cheering you on through successes and support you when things don't go your way, both in the workplace and in life -- and you've got a job that's one in a million, and one that definitely made the "to Berklee or not to Berklee" question much more difficult than it should have been.

5. Family time. Like with writing, not as regular as I'd like -- but still, a huge improvement over past years (Inay and Tatay have gotten accustomed to unanswered texts and calls), with a family trip to Baguio, a whole-family movie date (celebrating the role of Tintin in our childhoods), visits to Pinto Art Museum in Antipolo, and another New Year in Boracay (minus Tatay, unfortunately, who at the last minute had to volunteer to be taong-bahay). And inbetween, much less high-effort but much more meaningful were my parents' overwhelming patience and support throughout my to-Berklee-or-not-to-Berklee episode; and in the end, me actually getting along with -- okay, fine, liking -- the kids.

4. This Time With You. I have never been prouder of Hangad, than during the production and launch of the group's eighth album. First, the content was 100% Hangad-created, except for one track (which was an existing arrangement), unlike past albums for which we always had to ask for material from other musician friends. Second, so many Hangad members were eager to pitch in -- beyond the "given" of being vocalists -- as writers, artists, photographers, composers, arrangers, coordinators, or whatever else. And third, the output was, in my opinion, Hangad's most personal and powerful ever -- in Louis' words, "the kind of music Hangad was born to make." Hopefully, our four launch concerts -- two in Manila and two in Singapore -- are only the start. I would love for this music to reach more and more people in the coming years.

3. Ken. Just over a year and eight months after my last relationship ended, I entered into a new one -- with my best friend of four and a half years. Soon after one especially crappy set of dates, I reminded myself that I had told myself some time ago: "I have to be with someone I can be a fan of, and not just some random nobody." And sure enough, there was Kenneth, always ready to perk up my day since my breakup with James, with his extraordinary talent in music (from Chopin to Schwartz), in the kitchen (already great, and getting even better with his studies), and at making me laugh (from amazing wit to impromptu tap dancing). I initially told myself, he's too young, and he needs to date other guys first; until I realized, he'll have a lot of growing up to do during his six months in Paris, and besides, why let someone else grab this prize catch. And so, over the past few months, we have adjusted to each other and met halfway: my typically emotionally needy self ("the girl", my friends call me) has transformed surprisingly easily into a low-maintenance partner; while his stoicism has been giving way to pleasantly surprising bursts of sweetness ("Have you eaten? I made char kway teow, I'll bring some to practice for you"). In hindsight, I was lucky that nothing ever worked out with any of the guys I dated and tried to convince myself were "the one." Icky romance novel-ish as it may sound, the one I was waiting for was there all along.

2. Music. "In Your Own Way", "Wonderfully Made", "Let Me Be Your Stillness", "Through This Song", This Time With You", in my mind some of my most powerful songs yet; "Di Matinag Na Pag-Ibig", one of my most adventurous (yet effective!) vocal arrangements; "All That I Have", my first collaboration as lyricist (with no less than #3, above, heehee); "Tungo Sa 'Yo", my first string arrangement. And even as I thought my creative energies were all spent on This Time With You, along came "On This Day" for Teej and Teen's wedding, and a new "Traditional Christmas Medley" for Hangad, finally replacing the well-worn First Call Medley the group had been singing for almost 20 years. Add to all this a new level in piano playing; I don't know if anyone noticed apart from me, but as an accompanist, my countermelodies and embellishments have become more melodic and expressive, and my rhythms and arpeggios have become more daring -- maybe because of all the practice and preparation that went into my "Cinema Paradiso Suite" for the Berklee audition. And lastly, who would ever thought I would have the gall to put my own videos as vocalist online? I said it some months back -- it's when you stop second-guessing yourself, and embrace yourself as musician, that you truly let yourself shine.

1. Berklee. Was there ever any doubt what #1 on my list would be? I talked about Berklee so often this year -- in my blog, on Facebook, on Plurk, with my friends, at Hangad prayer sessions and retreats -- that everyone's probably so sick of hearing about it already. But what do you expect, with a dream of seven or so years coming true, only to reexamine and revalidate itself before finally convincing me to take the leap of faith? From application to audition to acceptance to discernment -- and everything inbetween -- it's been an amazing, amazing ride.

As awesome as this year was, I can't help but remind myself that it's a mere transition to an even more awesome 2012: Wicked in Singapore with Kenneth; a return to Bikram Yoga (still fighting against "chubby"); moving back in with Inay and Tatay, and taking them to Angkor Wat; final touches to my work in P&G and Hangad before I pass them on to my successors; cramming as much Hanon, songwriting, and music theory self-study as I can before May; and finally, the big move to Boston (just as Ken flies off for his culinary internship as well) -- and all the new music, friends, experiences, and writing it promises to bring.

Thank you, 2011, and everyone who was part of it; and best wishes to all in 2012! :D

Two Years Later

Today is December 30, 2011, and I’m at Hama in Boracay’s D’Mall. I just finished a big Japanese lunch with Inay, who’s now sitting to my right, reading a magazine over a watermelon shake. The sky is cloudless and the sun is out; luckily Inay and I got here early enough to grab a table under one of the restaurant’s ceiling fans. The restaurant is quite busy, even if it’s already 1:45 PM—late risers, I suppose, from partying the night before; or families who couldn’t pry their kids away from a golden morning on the beach.

Exactly two years ago—early afternoon in Boracay on December 30, 2009—the sun was shining just as brightly and the sky was just as cloudless, and I was also seated at a table in Hama below a ceiling fan, and had just finished lunch. Unlike today, though, the restaurant two years ago had much fewer diners; there were no magazines, and I had no laptop for blogging; and instead of sharing a table with Inay, I was alone with James.

And across the table from each other, with dry eyes and calm voices, we agreed to break up.

I don’t remember what exactly was said that afternoon. What I remember was that it culminated two weeks of not talking. More than that, that afternoon wrapped up a cumulative eight or so years of living together, and our 12 and a half year relationship.

“OMG, 12 and a half years!?!” is people’s inevitable reaction when I tell them how long James and I were together—which inevitably segues into admiration (“wow, that’s longer than some marriages”) and sympathy (“sayang naman”).

It was tempting for us to say “sayang” as well; with so few lasting relationships these days—gay relationships, especially—12 and a half years was an achievement. But we both acknowledged that there should be more to a relationship than the numbers game, and it would be pointless to rack up the years at the expense of growth, completeness, and joy. As a respected friend said: “Just because a relationship ends doesn’t mean it was bad; the quality of a relationship isn’t measured by how long it lasted, but by what it did for the people in it while it was going on.”

In a previous blog post, I described December 30, 2009 as “the day my 12-and-a-half-year relationship came to a screeching halt.” Looking back, it wasn’t as dramatic a halt as I once thought. In fact, the breakup had been years in the making. “People change” was one of the press releases James and I thought of when we finally agreed, three months later, to tell our friends about our breakup. Trite and vague and showbiz as it sounded, the fact is, we had changed. Over a span of 12 and a half years, how could anyone not? For one thing, in 2008, I significantly shortened our list of “quality-time-as a-couple” activities when I struck fast food, snacks, sweets, dessert and alcohol from my diet in my resolve to lose weight. Around the same time, his identity and sense of fun were starting to reshape themselves as he drew closer to and spent more time with a new set of friends which, for once, I wasn’t part of.

Moreover, over a decade into the relationship, we started to learn that we didn’t have as natural a dominant-submissive dynamic as we (and everyone else) thought; rather, it was becoming apparent that we were two very strong, very distinct personalities, with solid opinions on the same things—except one had to submit in the face of the other.

With these changes taking place, what once was a seemingly effortless submission was becoming less and less natural. As that happened, I resisted the autonomy and adventurousness he was starting to assert; and he began to resist the control I had always exercised on us both. Soon enough, we found ourselves becoming uncomfortable with each other, arguing more, having less in common, enjoying each other’s company less—so much so that it came to a point when each of us was no longer what the other needed at that point in our lives. In other words: it was time to stop just adding up the years.

As easy as it is to talk about in retrospect, figuring it out and coming to terms with it at the time was not straightforward in the least. It might have been easier if we hated each other, but we didn’t. We would often upset each other; we were unable to get along quite as well as before; there would be tears and heartache; but we never hated each other. All we knew was that we had to start untangling our interwoven lives—a task which, depending on the day, was one we wanted and didn’t want to do. So, after that day at Hama, we went from talking to not talking, to talking again; from promising to work things out to asking for more time; from becoming sentimental to making each other angry; until, four months after the breakup, we finally gathered up the courage and willpower to physically separate—and more than that, to rebuild our lives, now that the constant center of each of our lives for the past 12 years and for the futures we had envisioned for ourselves, was no more.

Needless to say, it took both of us several months to each tell ourselves, “We’re okay.”

So how come we’re okay? And, how come James and I are still friends? These are people’s standard next questions, following the mix of admiration and sympathy stemming from the 12-and-a-half year figure. Whenever I’m asked this, I always clarify—we're not friends, we're good friends. And that’s not just me talking—with neither malice or hidden meanings, James and I have both told each other how grateful we are to still be one of each other’s dearest friends.

James and I occasionally text each other, and have even met up for coffee a few times since the breakup. We become extremely proud of each other’s successes, and wildly happy at good news for each other’s futures. We’ve let go of our resentments, forgiven each other’s faults, forgotten who's to blame for what, and are able to laugh at everything that transpired, the way we were always able to. So, for those who click their tongues at the “sayang" 12 and a half years—well, though the romance is no longer there, the mutual concern and depth of understanding each other, built over 12 and a half years, lingers on in our being friends.

So today, two years later, I have no regrets. (Neither does James, as he told me some months back.) There’s no reason, after all, to regret our time together—surviving two years of long distance, building a home, traveling around Asia, making music, becoming a part of each other’s families, being there for each other through highs and lows, me learning to be more easygoing and spontaneous, and him being exposed to different cultures and cuisines. Neither is there a reason to regret what has become of us since we called it quits—his career taking off, and being able to build his own home without me stifling his design sense; and my writing some of my best music ever, and finally having the freedom, clarity and courage to set off for Berklee; and both of us now each being in our own new relationships, ready to share our lives once more, and guided by relationship wisdom gathered over 12 and a half years.

Today is my first time back at Hama since the breakup. One would think I’m back here to confront and conquer my demons from two years ago. But there are no demons to conquer. On the contrary, I’m actually grateful for that day. In hindsight, had we not decided to part that day, our relationship would have likely gone so rancid that we would not, could not even be friends now. As messy and ugly as things got back then, the clarity gained over two years tells me it was for the better. Inay would say, “it’s very Hollywood”—but yes, we’ve embraced the fact that we make better friends than lovers.

James and I have a pair of photos from June 1997, in which we shot each other from opposite ends of a see-saw: first, I went up in the air, and he shot me; then, he handed me the camera, he went up in the air, and I shot him. Given the strong and conflicting personalities we both turned out to have, I realize now that our relationship was a lot like that see-saw ride: always one up, one down, never in the same place. But now, with no more beam joining our seats, we’re able to move as we please, and for sure both of us are now up—and without a beam keeping us apart, we’re able to meet in the middle, in a better way than we were able to before.

How’s that for a metaphor.

Two years later—thanks for everything James, and good luck. See you around, my friend.

A flight update, almost a year later

Almost a year after Flight PKT 2011 took off, where the flight is today can easily be seen as a letdown.

After all, if all had gone according to my original flight plan, I would already be on my fourth month at Berklee. My days of P&G marketing would already be a fond memory; I would already have taken my first classes in music theory and production; my blog would already have stories of my adventures as a music student in Boston; my Facebook page would already be full of photos of new musician friends from all over the world; and I would be having my first white Christmas.

The thing is, Destiny wasn’t as straightforward as I expected it to be when all this started. From the “following my dreams” fanfare in the early part of this year, in more recent months I’ve swung between “going” to “kinda going” to “not going” to “I have no idea”—so much so that most of my friends ask me, ano ba talaga?; and I myself have lost track of what I’ve told each of them.

But what do you expect? I was accepted into the semester after the one I’d planned, and received no scholarship either—both of which made me doubt my musical ability, and rethink my willingness to enter into a lifetime, professional-level commitment to music. Adding to the urge to turn my back on Berklee was a series of lukewarm dates (which, luckily for me in retrospect, all eventually went bad); and the piece de resistance, a truly mouthwatering career plan, crafted just for me. For a time, everything added up to a resolute pronouncement that I was no longer going to leave.

Thankfully, signs continued to come, and as much as I tried to resist at first, I fortunately continued to listen.

My Berklee idol GP didn’t mince words as he chided me, “Getting no scholarship is just making you retreat to a place of comfort and compromise.”

Inay and Tatay were extremely patient as I shifted between “going” and “not going”, and were unbelievably supportive as they assured me that throughout my decision-making, money should never ever be an issue.

An unprompted visit to the Berklee website made me realize that options for studying at Berklee for less than two years (as I had originally planned) existed.

An image formed in my mind of an older self, successful after a decade-long marketing career, but forever wrestling with the regret of foregoing a chance to experience Berklee.

And Gloria, my ex-boss and dear friend who somehow always has the right thing to say, wrote from across the globe: “In life, people usually regret what they didn’t do more than they ever regret anything they did. You don’t have to go for an all black or all white approach; get your feet in the water, see how it feels and then play it by ear. You can always go back and get a job, whether with P&G or with another company; at the very least, you will have had a great life experience. And at the very best, you will have found your life’s true calling, whatever that may be.”

So, for everyone who’s been asking ano ba talaga?, I think it’s clear which side won out. Yes, I’m definitely going. I've closed a deal with a buyer for my condo and move back in with my parents by mid-January; I spend the next few months working on my student visa; I leave P&G at the end of April; I fly out around the third week of May; I attend new student orientation on May 22; and I start school May 29. But rather than dive headlong into a radical career shift, I will first attend Berklee for a year—immersing myself and making the most of the experience—and then see where everything goes from there. After a year, if I decide I love the field enough and see enough of a future in it to go professional, then I finish the two-year course I originally wanted and go on to full-fledged musicianship. But if I realize its role in my life is really just a passion on the side—but a burning passion nonetheless—then I come home, pick up my where I left off in my career, and continue to make music, but a much better musician after the year I spent at Berklee. Yes, what happens after a year is a mystery; for now, all I know is that is rare opportunity I just have to experience. And as controlling as I am, the thought of a future so ambiguous, so open to possibility, is giving me a huge, crazy thrill.

Do I have any regrets about the detour Flight PKT 2011’s took this past year? Not in the least. If things had gone according to my original plan, I would have missed the launch of Hangad’s eighth and best album, and Hangad’s Singapore concert. I would have missed the local, regional, and global recognitions my team at work has received, including the opportunity to fly to Mumbai to share some of this work with the rest of the world. I would not have been able to start building a new relationship with someone I’ve admired and loved for years (and who, in answer to people’s questions about what will happen to this budding romance, will also be studying abroad around the same time as me). I would have missed this one last Christmas with Hangad, P&G friends, and family. I’d have forgone my own improvements as a musician these past months, as I’ve started to gear up more seriously for an intense year at Berklee. And with all the signs I’ve been lucky enough to read, I approach this milestone now with more wisdom and pragmatism—but with no less (and maybe even more) wonder, optimism, and excitement.

So then, Flight PKT 2011 wasn’t a letdown after all, having turned out to an internal, introspective journey rather than a physical one. What pride, in fact, when Sr Bubbles told me after I related this whole story at Hangad’s advent retreat last November: “You really know how to discern. I’m so proud of you.”

Time to see if I can change this blog’s title. Please return to your seats, we will be taking off momentarily.

Six months of secret, sacred time

It’s been almost six months since my last blog entry. During these six months, I focused on This Time With You, Hangad’s eighth album, which we launched yesterday. In my opinion, This Time With You contains my most powerful works to date—six new full songs, one collaboration as lyricist, three collaborations as arranger—and the album itself (again, in my opinion) is also Hangad’s best to date. Without a doubt, my six month absence from this blog was worth it.

Today, I return to my blog; and to cap off my absence, my return entry is the reflection I delivered to Hangad right before yesterday’s launch concert. I hadn’t had time to write it down yesterday so I extemporized from an outline; but much of it is still so clear in my mind, that I might as well have been reading it from paper.

* * *

Many times over the past few days, I have fantasized about dying.

For one thing, what a deliciously ironic Jonathan Larson-esque exit it would be, to go out a few hours before launching your best works yet.

More than that, in rare moments such as this when everything just fits into place so perfectly, you’re tempted to grab the opportunity for a perfect ending, rather than lingering on in this life and risking screwing it up. Stop now, while you're ahead, while family, career, love, life direction, and Hangad, with this album, all fall into place so perfectly.

But while we can easily think of this launch as the culmination of many months’ outpouring of energy, talent, effort, and time, the word “launch”, in itself, also reminds us that this is just the beginning. Besides, as Louis said in his reflection earlier this week, with this album we have chanced upon exactly the kind of project Hangad was meant to undertake—the songs and stories of ordinary people with barely any training in music or theology, who simply have an uncontainable need to share the Love they have experienced.

So, after six months of work—and 20 years of Hangad—we find ourselves at yet another beginning.

Personally, the creation of this album served as the backdrop against which much drama in my life unfolded. In the language of the album: six months of secret, sacred time.

* * *

First, against the backdrop of this album, God revealed music’s place in my life.

At the time this album was just being planned, I was psyched to try out for Berklee College of Music, study film scoring and songwriting for two to four years, settle forever in the US, shift careers from marketer to musician, and become a Broadway hitmaker or (maybe even and) Oscar-winning film scorer.

I auditioned for Berklee in February; in March, the school told me I had made it. But Fate sent two twists. First, I was accepted into the January 2012 semester, rather than the August 2011 semester which I had applied for (and which would have meant missing the launch). Second, I didn’t get a scholarship, like I had hoped (and yes, this is the first time I'm announcing it broadly). With these circumstances, I got to see the whole album through from start to end; and also got to think harder about what I really wanted for myself.

During this time of reflection, I realized that as much as I love music, and as much as I want to learn more about it, it’s not simply the music that I love, but the purpose behind it. My joy and fulfillment do not lie in simply making music, but making music for a higher reason than myself: that is, not to earn, not to win awards, not to become famous, but to witness, to inspire, to enlighten, to share what I’ve seen.

With this, through the past six months, I’ve gone from impatience above moving to Boston; to choosing to scrap Berklee, telling myself I’m already blessed with an enviable blend of a comfortable career with P&G and enough music with Hangad; to realizing that though I may not want to be a professional musician, acceptance into Berklee is still a rare gift, and a learning and broadening experience I’ve dreamed about for a long time and which is still worth having.

Hence my plan, today—not to stay two years, but to just try it out for a semester or two; not to rush into it, but to start mid-2012 or later; not to shift careers, but simply to learn what I can; not to stay in the US for good, but to come back to the Philippines; and not to become a musician in search of fame, but to continue making the meaningful, purposeful music which fulfills me—which, incidentally, has made me the musician I am today.

* * *

Second, against the backdrop of this album, God unfurled the story of my musicianship.

Those who have known me long enough know that one of my longest-running themes is chosen-ness. Through the years, the lines from Amy Grant’s “Breath of Heaven” have resonated tremendously with me: “I am frightened by the load I bear”; “do You wonder as You watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place?” Why me?, I have asked year after year; Am I doing justice to this musical gift which I never even asked for in the first place?

At the same time, those who have known me long enough know that through my past 16 years with Hangad, I have always been the group’s hesitant, often apologetic, forever second-guessing, no-other-choice-naman-kasi resident songwriter. In the absence of a Fr Manoling in Hangad, I’ve felt compelled to write and arrange songs since Hangad’s first album in 1998. And while I’ve had some lucky output—mostly thanks to occasional strokes of inspiration—I’ve always found my music too cerebral, too calculated, to talkie. All I ever wanted to was to write a lyric that captured not just what was in my head, but which mirrored what was in my gut; and a melody that actually stuck; and I had pretty much given up.

With this album, though, God gave me the grace of YES. For the first time, fueled by my confidence from Biyaheng Hangad 2010 and the Berklee adventure He sent me on, I owned my musician-ship. As I said in this blog last February: “It was time for this hesitant, even apologetic musician, to put aside self-doubt and second-guessing, and to finally, finally embrace the gift and the calling that he had downplayed for much too long.”

For the first time, then, I stopped making lack of inspiration an excuse, and saw that with discipline and focus it was possible to make inspiration come instead of waiting for it to come. I forgot second-guessing, and allowed myself to become adventurous and daring. And I told myself, YES, I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN, and learned that it’s when you embrace your chosen-ness—forgetting whatever insecurities and inhibitions you might have—that your light shines brightest to those in need of your light.

* * *

Lastly, against the backdrop of this album, I realized just what Hangad is. At the start of this reflection, I mentioned how we have finally chanced upon the music we were meant to make. But just as amazed as I am at our output, I am also in awe of how we put together.

The two times I attempted to give public “thank you” messages over this last week, I failed (to my own embarrassment) to include everyone who deserved thanks. The first time, I forgot Igo's playing; the second time, I forgot Eric’s photography. This just attests to how so many people, active and inactive members alike, poured so much of their time and energy into the project, going beyond rehearsing and recording and performing, to songwriting and arranging, to writing and design and photography, to directing and managing and coordinating, pitching in with an enthusiasm which I don’t remember so many people in the group ever pitching in before.

Many times in the past weeks, people in Hangad have congratulated me for the completion of this project. Each time, I’ve responded that this is not my project. It’s no one’s project. It’s Hangad’s project. And by that, I mean that Hangad is not any one person, or group of people, or batch of people. Rather, Hangad is the providence that has led us to cross paths with each other, and the love and craziness and selflessness that keeps us going—and in the case of some, coming back—and giving, in whatever way we can.

* * *

With all this, I can’t help but feel that today is one of the biggest days of my life. It stands as the culmination of six months of secret, sacred time during which I learned about myself as a musician not for myself, but for a higher purpose; finally came to terms with my chosen-ness; and found myself in awe of an amazing group of people brought together by providence, and propelled by selflessness and love.

It doesn’t just go for me, but for each of us. We in Hangad each have our own stories of Hangad, our own secret, sacred times over the past six months. But without a doubt, these are gifts each of us have received: to have been called; to have been chosen; to have found each other.

Today is another beginning for us in Hangad.