#twofortheshow

When I was in elementary school at a private, catholic academy, I had lots of questions. Why did that one kid still have to come to class? Why didn’t the only other boy with a skin tone as warm as mine and a mom with a red dot on her forehead not close his eyes to pray when the rest of us did? Do people everywhere pray to this same God? When will we get to learn about these people? I knew I wouldn’t find these answers during school hours, so I did the grownup thing and scheduled a meeting with my pastor. He sat patiently, coolly reclining in his armchair, with a finger on his temple. He came prepared to answer each of the questions scribbled in my glittered notebook from his own sanctified memory. He said some words that the butterflies in my stomach flutter a little less and didn’t try to make the ever after sound too happy.

For a few Sundays after that, I was determined to find an image of God who looked like someone I wouldn’t mind getting close to. I’d close my eyes and think of a coconut-brown being in creamy white clothes and an everlasting desire to make me feel better and reassure me that everything would be okay. I can’t say that I was able to draw this image from my imagination alone. I needed to borrow the colors from a few others to paint a fuller picture.

On the rides to the church in my itchy stockings, flouncy dresses, and constricting sweaters, the music from the gospel station would invite me to breathe a little easier. If I just listened, I could hear that someone somewhere had loved Him enough to write a song about it. There were revelations, resurrections, trials, triumphs and testimonies. I was drawn by the strong language and the journeys that rested just beneath these stories. It didn’t sound like anyone could just wake up and get it. They had to walk. They had to fall. They had to stumble to know.

Thanks to Kirk Franklin, Mary Mary and The Clark Sisters whose buttery voices submitted to Him in the morning and made it all sound much more familiar. It had the echoes of the sugary voices that went on an endless search for love or money during rush-hour and on the late night stations. It was the same yearning, the same hunt, the same bitterness burned into serenity. I began to fall more in love with the journey than the destination.

Is this where I say that R&B is my gospel? Is there where I reassure you that I still pray to God using my own language? I think I just did. Amen.

He knows the prices by heart, and his fast fingers press the buttons on the calculator. 

“No work today, huh?” he asks. 

“Yup. Today’s my day off,” I say. I always wonder if I sound convincing enough.

I readjust the tone of my voice and quickly add, “Yeah, I’m just running errands for my mom, you know.” 

I smile – not too wide and not too much teeth – to keep my sincerity and whatever’s left of my dignity that’s trapped in this never-ending white lie. 

I shift my eyes to the wooden shelves stacked with colorful phone cards and rows of citrus scented air freshners. They tower over him, and only tunay Pilipinos know, hold on to these trivial products as small reminders of how collect calls still play an important role in collecting memories, of how fresh the inside of Manila taxis and jeepneys smelled as they roasted under the city’s smoldering heat. 

The receipt begins to print, and he remembers how big I’ve grown in the last few years and how he’s always known I’d be somebody. 

He’s known me since I was 15, yet whenever I see my reflection through his glasses, I still see the same old me. 

He, too, hasn’t changed much – maybe just a dash more of white hair and a couple wrinkles due to the store’s finances; The holidays and consistent flow of family parties help, he always says, reassuring me he’ll always be around. 

“Ingat. See you again,” he says. 

“Take care, too,” I reply back. 

I hop back into my car just in time for the Midday Mix on WGCI. A burst of bangers blast from my stereo, and the bass on my left speaker is buzzing. My CDs are rattling against the door. 

Weeks prior to Christmas, my cousin asked me to hang out. She didn’t tell me until last minute that we were going to a tattoo shop.

She hopped into my car, and Future’s “Real Sisters” muffled over her reasons of why she wanted to get a Googleable script image placed along her ribcage.

The DJ heads to a commercial break and leaves us with “Coming up, 10 joints in a row...” right in time as I park the car. I turn to her to see if she could step out of the car and tell me if I’m too close to the curb.

I see the look in her eyes. She’s so excited that she swings the door wide open, steps out of the car and slams the door shut. The CD cases clank together. I cringe and pray they didn’t crack.

I couldn’t shake off the conversations I’ve had yesterday. 

Every “How are you?” was met with a short, rehearsed response of “I’m fine” and “It’s all good.” Every “How’s work?” was greeted with a “Yeah, I lost my job a couple months ago.”

They don’t have to know all the details, I say to myself. You don’t owe everyone an explanation.

The radio’s on, and I’m barely listening. It’s unreasonably cold this morning, and I’ve layered my favorite hoodies together. 

It’s the day after Christmas, and my newly tatted cousin roped us all to get breakfast together at some diner in some suburb away from the city and the lights. 

I park the car on the street, and I call my cousin to let her know I’m here. My youngest cousin runs from the front door and yells “Shotgun!” while the others straggle behind, comfortable with being seated in the back. 

His mom comes to my window. I reach for her hand to mano, a way of greeting our elders, and she sneaks a $40 in my palm. She murmurs “Ingat” under her breath. I start the car and roll up the window. 

The youngest reaches for his phone from his pocket and asks if I’ve got an aux cord so that he could put on his playlist.

"Sorry, my car’s old,” I said. “But I’ve got really cool CDs.” 

I hand him a stack, and his eyes widen. He plugs in Logic’s Under Pressure, his hometown hero, and delves into a conversation about how the second album didn’t match up with the first. 

He plays track 5 –  his (and my) favorite: 

Tell me how you feel 

I feel like the grass is green 

And everything I do is unseen

But I know that’s just in my mind