The Mirror Has Two Faces

Every once in a while a good Barbra Streisand title sets you on a path of reflection and as fate would have it, the Jewish New Year rolled through just as my boyfriend and I talked at length about faith.  He has held a constant belief system that has kept him and seen him through most of his life.  It's a strong and beautiful facet of him.  When the question arose to explain my own, I found myself both stupefied and tongue-tied.  I'd rarely discussed it openly, especially to someone I was dating.  Furthermore, I hadn't gotten to the point where I could fully articulate it to someone outside myself.  It's wondrous that the topic presented itself at that very moment, because I had spent the better part of the past year and a half really understanding and deciding what I believed.  Here was my chance to boldly state it.  Suffice it to say I babbled my way through it like an idiot.

When I moved to New York three years ago, a change began to take place.  An awakening, as it were.  Faith had always been a strong component of my life, but it was always tempered by a deep questioning, perhaps even skepticism.  As I had grown up in a household that embraced both Christianity and Buddhism, I merely accepted what I found to be parallel faith paths.  Yes I gravitated towards Christianity, but Buddhist principles constantly found active applications in my life. Moreover, I noticed that the basic tenets of mutual and individual respect, a search for inner tranquility, and an active love of others were common throughout.  However, I often found it hard to negotiate what I felt was a narrow view of God within the congregations I actively attended.  I couldn't understand the constraints put upon the nature of God.  Nonetheless, I stayed along my path and kept my focus, absorbing aspects of both faiths that spoke to me, inspired me.

Then my teens came in, and along with it confusion, anger, and general doubt in who I was.  The divorce and the fact that I liked boys didn't help much, either.  As it were, much of that belief system crumbled.  I went to church and played the part, continued meditating, but found myself increasingly unmoved.  Apathy is worse than aversion in faith.  You no longer care one way or another for what you previously believed.  You merely exist, just slogging day by day ignorantly unaware.

Then, as my teens gave way to my twenties, my apathy gave way to my struggle and determination to feel, indeed believe, in something.  And to my enormous surprise, I found that my faith in something greater than myself hadn't died.  Merely gone into hibernation, waiting for me to wake up from my paralyzed sense of identity.  What a great joy, but a great sorrow, for having not seen it or realized it was there for so long.  But this time, it was different.  It came with an understanding of pain in confluence with bliss, sadness with happiness.  Both exist within and inform each other.  And there was a new duality of faith, an appreciation of my beliefs as a Buddhist and a Christian, which now tied completely with the duality of being both bilingual and bicultural, and having to straddle two existing ideologies and sets of customs.  At least for me, all of them enrich each other, trauma providing insight into the vastness of joy, language offering more complex and precise forms of expression, and each culture increasing an understanding of the human condition.

So now I'm at a new point in my odyssey with faith.  Having the question asked of me has put me on the path to succinctly define it for myself, to open myself up to what I really believe.  One thing is certain: throughout this journey, I am thankful for rediscovering a faith that is uniquely and wholly my own.

The American Dream...according to my Mother

Anyone who knows me knows I tell stories about my mother.  A wise sage in sensible Nike Shox and recycled pants I wore when I was 12.  She endlessly amazes me, in that stories come flying out of her that always stun me, make me think, bore a little (she does get long-winded), and always elicit a smile.

A few days ago we were sitting watching the Golf Channel (actually, that's all her), and reminiscing about a trip my mother had made to visit me in New York around the Fourth of July.  Her first trip to the Big Apple.  The first of many that seem to always bring me back to myself.  To seeing the world through my awed mother's eyes.  For example, take her first trip to the Statue of Liberty, that quintessential representation of New York and its unending sense of promise.

It was a day like most in summer here, lit brightly yellow and sticky.  The AC in my apartment did little to help with the humidity, despite the cool air that now pervaded the room.

"Hey, we going to the Statue of Liberty today?"

"Yes, Mom.  Like I promised."

"Oh man!  Okay!  I need to go get ready.  Need to look nice for the Lady!"

If a grown woman could go skipping from a room, she was it.  She tends to get excited by life, but that day there was an unusual bounce in her step.  More akin to Tigger than anything else.

We made our way out and soon found ourselves on the ferry that would transport my mother and I to the island.  As the ferry glided closer and closer, my less than composed mother became positively kindergarten-esque.

"Oh, I see it!  I mean, her!  Oh man!  Hey Kav, look at her!  She's so big!"

I looked on in amazement.  Not just at the statue, but at my mother.  I had forgotten that awe for a good long while, and much of the city's grind and hustle had creeped in.  To recapture it in a moment of unexpected jubilation coming from someone I loved greatly plastered the hugest grin on my face.  By the end of the day, my cheeks hurt.

Reminiscing again the couple of years later, sitting on the couch, had done little to diminish my mother's giddiness.

"You know, when I saw that green lady with the big feet.  Oh man.  That made my day.  No, that made my LIFE!  Now I understand how all the immigrants felt when they saw her for the first time, because that's how I felt."

My mother moved to the US for the first time when she was nineteen to live with her sister with very little in the way of money, and a lack of English skills.  By sheer force of will, since my aunt abruptly moved back six months after my mom arrived, she carved out a life for herself alone here, getting an Associate's degree and taking ESL classes in the evening before finally returning to Thailand some four years later.  A blushing wallflower she is not.

To me, she embodies the true promise of the American Dream.  The sense of exploration and deep awe that flows throughout my entire being.  I used to question it, and have certainly done so here, but that little conversation opened my eyes to the fact that a unique sense of wanderlust is in me.  Not flippant or flaky, but incredibly curious and open, with a world bounding in possibility.  That is the essence of my mother's sense of self.  Looking on the world anew each day, with an open heart and an enormous sense of humor.  Thanks, Mom.  I raise a glass to you.  Even if you don't drink.

PS.  Another example of my Mom's sense of opportunity.

"Wait, I have a surprise for you.  Close your eyes.  Hold out your hands.  Both hands.  Okay, you can open your eyes."  Two five-dollar bills sit in my hands. "See, there you go.  A gift.  Five dollars for Super Lotto, and five dollars for Mega Millions!"

I think I'll go out and buy some today.

Teens Like Phil

I recently worked on a project that I feel so excited about, and find so important to share.  The film, Teens Like Phil, deals with the bond of friendship and love, corrupted by fear and violence, between two young men.  Throughout the past year we have heard about a pronounced uptick in teen suicide and bullying.  Whether that uptick is the result of increased awareness or an actual rise in self inflicted violence is debatable, but hardly the point.  There are kids out there dying for being who they are and believing that that is not enough to warrant living.  As a man who understands what that felt like, I want to implore you to seek out those who may not know that there is light and joy at the end of that tunnel.

Isolation is a self-perpetuating condition.  It's strange how, once we feel abandoned, betrayed, antagonized, or ridiculed by a particular person or group of people, we begin to remove ourselves from the general society at large.  We begin to fear first the cause of our tumult, and then the world beyond it, because we begin to believe the awfulness that surrounds and is directed towards us.  We start to believe the diminished sense of place and worth that comes with such relentless contempt, and suddenly we are on a precipitous downhill course until we stand on a cliff edge, with nowhere to go and nowhere to turn.

The thing is, there is always somewhere to turn.  The first thing to realize is that giving up is not an option.  It never is.  There is a difference between acquiescing graciously and deciding to give up.  The former denotes a full fight to live the breadth of your time here.  It means that you have experienced everything that is part and parcel with living, and done so wholly, no matter how long your life may be.  The latter is the total antithesis of all that entails.  It is an inability to see beyond this moment, to know that the world is infinitely more joyous, and terrifying, than this.  It refuses to acknowledge the vast resources of your spirit, and your strength that far exceeds what you can imagine.

I want all of you to remember, if the path you're on is fraught with obstacles and hurts that you cannot fathom coming out of, to call to mind the proverbial light.  It's always there.  Whether from God, or the Universe, or your own Spirit; I don't care how you define it.  Find it.  Hold it.  And remind yourself of it constantly.  Because the path will eventually clear.  And know that you are a member of a community.  There is always someone who cares, or is willing to care.  All you need to do is seek it out.

I beseech those of you who have gone through your own trials, your own deep hurts, to seek out those in turmoil.  Give them the benediction of your compassion, your empathy, and your understanding.  It is so desperately needed.  I know I'm proselytizing, but fuck that.  It is important and needs to be shared.  People are dying because they feel isolated, ostracized, and alone.  People on the very cusp of their lives, who through the cruelty of others, will now never know the joy of a life fully lived.  That is the greatest shame.

One Size Does Not Fit All

My ex-roommate was thoroughly mortified by the show Hoarders, and for good reason.  No one ever wants to sink that low.  It's mortifying.  It's embarrassing.  It shows people your taste in clothes from the Seventies.  But the deeper issue is the emotional barricade these people put up through accumulating stuff.  Almost a bit like the drama we occupy ourselves with in life.  For example, say you have been seeing someone.  Gabe, perhaps.  Funny, warm, great smile, good body, motivated, and you feel so at ease around him.  You always have fun, laughing at yourselves over ice cream, feeling like fatties.  But you're just dating.  Something doesn't feel right.  Maybe he's a little too tall, or doesn't make enough money, or has a strange laugh that reminds you of the lovechild of a ghoul and a car engine revving.  So you continue to date around.

And then, out of the blue, you meet the perfect man at Barney's or better yet, Crunch.  He checks every box on your list.  Lawyer?  Check.  Apartment in a really classy co-op on the Upper West?  Check. Thighs that Michelangelo used to model the David?  Double check.  Huge fig leaf?  I think my nips just got hard. And his name?  Lorenzo.  The next week you indulge in three or seven cocktails (who counts?) at dinner with Lorenzo, who likes your arms and shows you how big that fig leaf is.  It is nirvana.  Angels sing and trumpets blare.  You realize that you have met the ONE.   You will now be featured on Barefoot Contessa, one of Ina's ridiculously happy, turtleneck clad gays of uncertain but affluent financial means.  Your days will consist of a hugely satisfying job working in advertising for Vanity Fair, commuting between the co-op and the Hamptons, milk painting the shabby chic dresser you found for the foyer entrance.  Idyllic doesn't describe it; Webster's can't define it.

You revel in your new found Apollo and the wondrous world you plan to build together.  Bliss, all in one week.  So what if he hasn't called in three days after your last date at Five Guys?  He is the ONE.  He knows the special bond you have formed, all over cooing words and bubble time in the hot tub.  Gabe, of the great smile, who's seen you as a sloppy mess after being out, and still wanted to take you home to cuddle, calls you to go out to a street faire in the Village this weekend.  But you're busy.  You're waiting for Lo-Ren-Zo.  You're on Cloud Nine.

Hmm.  He still hasn't called.  You check your voicemail.  Nothing.  A few more days go by.  Nothing.  You are in the dumps.  You call Gabe back and agree to go to the faire.  It's something to do.  You're a little sullen, a little pouty, and a whole lot of sass when you meet him.  Nothing is going to lift your spirits.  You are mourning the loss of your caviar dreams.  Oh look, one of your favorite food trucks, that sells the best Belgian waffles outside of Brussels, is parked on the corner.  You get one, and share it with Gabe, who comments that you look like an overly satisfied chipmunk.  That makes you chortle, which makes you cough, as you've just aspirated the powdered sugar on your bite of waffle.  Gabe (damn that smile) laughs at you.  You glare, but you're not mad.  He's just so warm, so comfortable, so funny.  Then suddenly you realize it.  Maybe it really is a quiet thing.  Maybe this is your Robin Leach dream.  And just at that moment, Gabe hands you a taster glass of champagne.  You smile back at him.  A smile of recognition.  And those jeans you bought at Barney's when you met...what's his name?  Oh yeah, they don't fit anymore.

La Voce

For an artist, the goal is often to communicate one's beliefs and ideas in forms that engage the viewer, and relates to them in that viewer's specific context; the way they see the world, so to speak.  By far the most expressive tool of communication for the singer is the voice, both literally and figuratively.  We cultivate the former through the practice of the voice and its musculature: timbre, pitch, dynamic, breathe.  We seek to make the voice pleasant to the ear, to perhaps emulate those that we admire, and to develop proper technique to ensure longevity of the muscle.

However, how often do we cultivate the latter?  The sense of one's own unique perspective, as reflected in sound?  I find, myself included, that we often forget ourselves in the search of the perfect sound.  We can learn to have the best technique in the world, but if we have no idea where we came from, and what we are trying to communicate, who's compelled to listen to anything we have to say?

I recently listened to a recording of myself.  It was perfectly serviceable, pretty at times, but what struck me was how little of my own personality came through.  I was shocked.  I'd always encouraged my friends to seek out there voice, their passion, and yet here I had so little of my own personality within my singing.  It brought me to the realization that, perhaps, I'd lost my voice in trying so hard to conform to what I thought was the sound I was supposed to produce.

I have lived much of my adult life forming my unique perspective, after having regained my voice after so long.  Not terribly ruffled, quirky, a little odd, loud, gregarious, maybe slightly unsettling, definitely dirty-minded, in love with love....those things I get.  Those things are ME.  Now I have to find out how to include all that back into my voice.  I have a feeling it might be harder than I expect.  Actually, I know it will be harder than I expect.  It always is, and I'd be foolish to think otherwise.  But, I could surprise myself...so perhaps it won't be so hard?  Hmm.  How circuitous.  I'm just excited to finally bring both together into one.  My literal voice: The final frontier.

Fackus!

Say it with me now.  Fackus.  Despite what you think the etymology of the word may be, it comes directly from my diving coach in high school.  His Greek-born father used to scream it at him during practices.  "Chyou needa to fackus!" he would shout from the stands.  The call seemed to help his son find the nerve, ambition, and drive to forge ahead to the next plateau.  It got him through grueling practices.  And it taught him the value of humor within competition and work.  Naturally, he wanted to pass it on to us young, impressionable teenagers.  Right before a dive, while concentrating on the task at hand, a voice would rise up from beside the pool.  "Fackus!"  It might not have helped us with our concentration, but it certainly got us to laugh as we glided into the pool.  Invariably, that became a rallying cry when one of us was having a particularly off day.

There's enormous strength in laughing at yourself as you find your footing and watch yourself flounder.  Think about it.  If you make a big mistake, you have one of two choices.  You could mope, and bemoan the fact that you made the mistake in the first place, or you could laugh, learn, and let it go.  Of course, that's a gross oversimplification, but as Polonius said, "Brevity is the soul of wit."  Therefore, to wit.  

I used to take myself very seriously.  In fact, I think it's this very quality that made me too lazy to do the work, too insecure to push myself, and too prideful to accept constructive criticism at times when I needed it most.  Perhaps I'm being harsh with myself, but sometimes a good thorough taking stock is in order.  So here's a reminder to wipe the poop off, throw the chip off my shoulder, and do what needs to be done.  Laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.  If you've felt that you haven't lived up to your potential because you've gotten in your own way, I give you full permission to get out of the way.  Seriously, get the hell out of the way.  Just stick to the enterprise and off you go.  A clairvoyant once told me to "clear the attic."  At the time it unnerved me, because I knew what she meant, but had no means to do so.  I have those means now.  Hard fought, gainfully won, and heaven sent.  That is a wonderfully gratifying feeling.

To all who have helped me, guided me, and tried to pull it out of me when I couldn't and wouldn't let you, I apologize.  I wasn't ready, and I wasn't trying.  I was simply resting on laurels that weren't there, because I was too lazy and afraid to do the work.  I'm so sorry, but so grateful to you all for everything you have taught me.  You may not feel like I learned it, but I did, though it's taken years of active work, reflection, and perseverance to grasp it.  Thank you.

Now, back to work!

Auditions....and all of that ilk.

So the past couple of months have been a non-stop whirl of auditions, callbacks, and lessons.  I don't think I saw my roommate for a week and a half in one particular stretch.  It was almost mind-numbing.  Luckily, a few things have panned out, so my summer is all set.

I suppose this being my first time auditioning for summer stock season, I had a few lessons to learn.  However, I was ill-prepared for the cattle calls of five hundred people, trying to mold my particular skills and downplay my shortcomings to fit into prospective theaters' seasons.  I have usually been gone on a job during this time, and so going through it myself was an eye opener.

The first real lesson I learned was that I really have become a rusty dancer, even with the renewed effort to regain my dance ability.  In the four years since I last danced in a show, I have primarily been cast in roles that require little of that skill set.  I feel a bit like an infant, learning to walk, to move through space.  Nonetheless, it's better than where I was some five months ago.  On the opposite end of the spectrum, I've learned a great deal about trusting my instincts in crafting a song, a character, and a complete arc through the show.  I'm able to see where I would like to go with my character, how he relates to others onstage, and how to contribute my voice and my energy to the collective theatrical process.  I hope I make April Shawhan proud!

The third, and most interesting, lesson is that how I perceive myself as a performer and an artist, and the set of skills that I have worked through and honed in the past few years is now different from how I'm perceived by those casting.  When I danced a great deal, I was what you could call a real ensemble kid.  I loved working the chorus.  It was a comradeship; a coming together of people, usually just out of college, who wanted to put on a show.  It was loud and boisterous and silly almost.  I loved it.

But I realized, sadly, that I'm no longer that kid.  I've been pushing myself to deepen as an artist, and having neglected my dancing ability, I found the realization of my lack of skill both a slap in the face to my sense of self, and somewhat bittersweet.  I saw that I was growing into a different kind of artist, even if I couldn't move like those kids at all the dance callbacks I went to.  However, many of the theaters still see me as that kid.  Thankfully, I now have life behind me, and experience that I hope has deepened my other abilities and given me something else to offer.  Maybe not the wide-eyed eagerness, but a deeper sense of self awareness, and a richer well of expression and experience.  I wouldn't change the last four years for the world, and I'm prepared to show the world a maturer, quirkier, richer performer than that kid from then.  I'm ready now; who wants to see it?