The Zero On My Chest

Lauryn Hill at thirteen years old, performing at the Apollo in 1987.

I had to get off the boat so I could walk on water.

Child’s Smile

Thank you to Jason, Joey, Tommy, Stephanie, Eddy, Genice, Francesca, Evan, Eric, Kalyani, Abhay, Jasper, Karmen, Chloe, Darren, Jessica, Chelsea, Monika, Alice, Kristin, Luke, Matt, Bernadette, Ellie, Derik, David Me., Kate, Ravali, Roberto, Cameron, Angela, Jerome, Sam, Emily, Maya, Stasean, Meg, Trey, Christina, Marissa, Lindsay, Miriam, Annie, Jennifer R., Erica, T.J., Anthony, David Mo., Leah, Jennifer A., and Francis.

Thank you all for the help, encouragement, confidence, criticism, patience, support, and time you gave me and my inexperience.

A little over five months ago, I began writing an email to my friend, director, and professor, Francis, apologizing but requesting his permission to withdraw my commitment to his play, “When The Purple Settles.” The fall semester had ended a few days ago, but I was still in Williamsburg, on the unpleasantly odorous living room couch in my apartment, writing this email at the thirteenth hour. At the time, I wondered if words (or at least the limited collection of words that I knew) could palpably convey the angst and despair that was swirling inside of me–I think I eventually wrote that I felt like I was “caught in an existential web.” The semester had been a very rough time in my life; all of my principles, ideals, and beliefs that I held about heavy things like God, love, and friendship were fundamentally questioned by a series of unfortunate events, which belong to a different day and a different story.

I had gone through a lot of pain and my perceptions about everything in life were shifting once again, as they always seem to be doing these days. In the words of my five-month-ago-self, the semester was “an emotional, mental, and psychological trial that [had] opened my eyes to many serious problems that I must fix” (I still have the draft in my Gmail). I was trying to pick up the broken pieces and glue my life back together; next semester I told myself that I was going to get serious about my academics, get serious about preparing for my medical career, and start making healthy decisions for my life, and I wasn’t sure that committing 1/3 of my next semester to “Purple” was exactly a piece that fit in my puzzle. When the sun rose the next day, I was still sitting on my fetid beige couch with an email unsent.

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Exactly two months ago, I was on the R train headed to Queens with the homey Anthony. On our quest to Jollibee’s, we talked about the beautiful struggle. I asked him how he was doing down in Georgia, with his training and post-graduate life. He asked me about “Purple,” now that the show was successfully complete.

To tell you the truth, it feels a little disconcerting to see people walk out of a theatre while you’re on stage. It’s not all that dark sometimes; sometimes you can see the little expressions of contempt and disgust on their faces. It’s a little disconcerting when your line goes, “I mean, they would rather see Miss Saigon!,” and someone in the audience retorts not too softly, “So would we.” Especially when those someone’s are your grandmothers and grandfathers. Not my grandmother and grandfather, but someone’s grandmothers and grandfathers. And someone’s mothers and fathers.

Of course, many people did not walk out of our show, and those who did were typically part of the older to senior demographic (which is understandably a large demo here). I understood the contentious nature of the play that we put on (proudly, I might add), but I couldn’t help but wish that the people who left midway had stayed until the very end. People loved the pleasant and tranquil beauty of Movement in Green (the introductory act), but left during Movement in Blue’s (the second act’s) explosive vulgarity. I felt gipped; I felt that the people who left were gipped and I felt like I was gipped. To say that the play contained profanity, violence, and overtones of sexuality is an understatement. Cross-dressing, masculine, dominatrix nuns on roller blades are not easy on the eyes nor the mind (sorry Tommy, you always seem to have to bear this cheap jab at your character). The scenes of “Purple” contained a lot of disturbing images, but those devices of controversy were far from what the play was about it. The play was about many things, but it wasn’t about evil nuns who curse, roller-blade, and play for both teams. To explicate “When the Purple Settles” on that plane of understanding is to purport only a superficial interpretation, to rob the intricately written 2002 Palanca Award winner of its Brechtian layers of depth and complexity.

The play was about colonization, the play was about growing up, but most of all, the play was really about love–love for one’s country, love for one’s family, love for one’s wife, and love for one’s self. As Francis often told the cast, colonization, revolution, and rape is neither pretty nor happy, so neither should the theatre be. I am hardly an expert on the artform, but I believe that catering to “acceptable” conventions and expectations of theatre would be to trivialize the very ugly and very real happenings of Spanish colonization, the Phillippine-American war, and Marcosian martial law. To me, acting is by inherent design about breaking social convention and normative behavior. Understating the play’s devices would have been to understate the historical disturbance, violence, and rape suffered by the people of the Philippines less than 40 years ago, as well as throughout their national existence.

People loved Movement in Green because of its exotification of the Philippines, but hated Movement in Blue because of its deconstruction of that “splendid native” image and exposure of the deprecatory effects of imperialism. The play was about understanding and healing the pain of a country, through the metaphorical context of a family, not a safe and scenic depiction of the Philippines behind a 4th wall. There were many ugly images in “Purple”, but its definitive tableau is beautiful. Healing from an ugly, painful history and all of its negativity can only truly take place by transforming it into something positive, something beautiful. I understand why some people couldn’t take it and walked out of our play, I truly understand them–but I wish for them to truly understand us as well, to realize what “Purple” is and why “Purple” exists. Those who could not make it through the suffering of Movement in Blue were never healed by the resplendent Movement in Red (the third act). Life is full of ugliness and pain, but it is through our struggles that we make it beautiful. Like the titular play, in life, we learn to understand and accept our ugly scars.

“When the Purple Settles” was a very personal piece to Francis, as the script was written off the basis of many actual events and experiences in his life, but “Purple” was very personal to me as well. Five months ago, I ultimately chose not to send Francis my letter of withdrawal. Being part of a mainstage production is a rare opportunity, one that I truly may never have again, and I appreciate that Francis, Joey, and Jason gave me a chance; being a part of the ensemble was truly an honor. I also realized that “Purple” was bigger than myself or any individual… the play stood for so much: it was the story of a nation and the struggle of its people and their liberation. Besides it’s cultural signficance, the play was Francis’ story and his mother’s story; I understood its personal significance and how essential it was as an artist to tell your story. I did “Purple” because of Francis and the story he needed to tell, but I also did it because of myself and the story I needed to tell. In many ways, I identified with my character as “Junior” and the relationship with his mother more than people might think, which was something that I could not fully embrace until much later. I did not have to stretch my imagination very far to relate with Junior and his circumstances. But that story belongs to a different day. At times, it felt like I was vicariously telling my story through Francis’ story, so much sometimes that “Purple” became my story. By the end, maybe “Purple” became everyone’s story, because it is about the the common human condition:

“In describing the struggle you are also talking about where you’re trying to get at the end of that struggle. Where you’re trying to get is somewhere beautiful. So while the struggle might be hard, it’s what you’re fighting for that makes it beautiful.”

- Talib Kweli

Being “Black”

Last Sunday, Robin Givhan of The Washington Post wrote an interesting article, “Plunging Back Into Blackness,” in light of the continual dispute about Barack Obama’s perceived credibility as a black person, or his “blackness.” Presumably inspired by John McLaughlin’s usage of the racial epithet “Oreo” in describing Obama—which Givhan describes as if McLaughlin “had been chauffeured past a crowd of black people 50 years ago, overheard them talking, and picked up a bit of their odd patois”—Givhan writes that “Obama has ping-ponged between not being black enough when he was mostly known as the Harvard-educated lawyer who gave rousing speeches, to being too black when his now former minister Jeremiah Wright was on the loose preaching about a racist America. Now he’s back to not being black enough because he’s been talking about personal responsibility among black Americans.”

What does that mean, exactly? What is being “black” and what is not? Or white, or Asian, or Hispanic?

How "black" is he?

Labels that probably should only be used to culturally describe or define certain actions and characteristics are often (acceptably) misused to package people into neat little boxes of, and often disparaging, stereotypes. These classifications tend to serve as barriers that try to limit one’s individuality and conform in uniformity with the “culture” of a color shade: admitting that you listen to Chopin or that you just finished Dostoyevsky will most likely get your black card revoked and the automatic certification of a white one. Givhan asks if “shopping at Whole Foods [means] that you’ve turned in your black card? Excommunicated due to arugulua consumption?” Or, “he bowled a 37… Is he black enough for you now?”

“Ebony magazine highlights the notion of ‘cool’ as something quintessentially black,” writes Givhan. The sociological background behind the phenomena of what is culturally acceptable and culturally unacceptable is beyond my nescient knowledge, but it’s related to the egotistically-driven braggadocio and swagger that is so prevalent in street/Hip Hop culture, and ever since the ’80’s/’90’s (when it spilled into and almost is now synonymous with), commercial/adolescent/pop culture as well. Perhaps the competitive nature of the cool masks basic insecurities of the cultures in question. I think this is what Bomani Armah and Tyree Dillahy were trying to satirize in their “Read A Book” commercial, whose social commentary many people may have missed.

An individual defines himself—a color does not define an individual. I am Asian; being Asian does not define me. Obama is black; black is not Obama. A color or culture is defined insofar as much as the individuals that compose it are defined. As Givhan says, “It is as if they fear blackness is as fragile and ephemeral as a dandelion puff. We have gotten to a stage in our politics in which we repeatedly and mistakenly define blackness by what it is not. Hopefully, we will manage to evolve to a place in which it is defined by what it can be.”

A Song Like This In These Days And Times Is…

I heard about the reunification of The Fugees three years ago, but I had never witnessed any footage of the historic event… until last night, when I finally saw Dave Chappelle’s Block Party. Even when I read about it on Okayplayer it had sent shivers down my spine, but actually seeing it go down (albeit three years overdue) gave me goosebumps and body tremors.

Lauryn Hill in Dave Chappelle's Block Party

She is one of those women who simply exude elegance, nobility, and grace in such a strong and beautiful manner. There’s no need for her to assert her character through any exhibition of any sort… external appearances have nothing to do with it. Her internal strength sort of just manifests. Classy, straight up.

"Killing Me Softly"

I think to a certain subtle extent, this quasi-movie does a great job in documenting that sense of unassailable internal fortitude and heart that really lies at the core of Hip Hop culture and of Black culture. Not to say that this was the aim of Dave Chappelle’s Block Party, although Chappelle does love to layer subtle social commentary into his work. Whatever the intent, I think whenever Hip Hop culture is authentically represented, it’s true quintessential nature has no choice but to show through, superceding its commercially fashionable external appearances… sort of like Ms. Hill. That’s when it is so lovely.

It’s funny though how Wyclef and Lauryn were introduced before they started spitting (so the crowd could go wild), but Pras got no intro and no love.

Originators

The original Sunday School crew. We kept the bowties and suspenders fresh, ya dig.

One

Life is capricious. One moment you think it’s one way, the next moment it becomes another.

We each only get one too. Only one life to do something. Anything. A predetermined number of heartbeats before time is up. We only get one chance, but my problem is that I learn from experience.

I wish I was better to my family.

Free Yourself

He didn’t break my trust,

I took it from him.

She didn’t break my heart,

I broke it for her.

They didn’t break my dream,

I repressed it for them.

So, I guess this second time around I’ll make sure I do it for myself.

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This blog was brought to you by an impetus to become a better and honest man.