Midnight Special

Summer’s end- September 2009

A month has passed since my son left for college. I took over his room and did minor decorating changes. I installed a floor lamp and drafting table and placed my laptop on it, moved some of my books on top of his dresser, turning the room into my Face Book and “blogging room.” His dad was stunned. “You cannot do this! This is still his room!” he exclaimed. I argued that my things are portable; when our son comes home, I will move them out of the room.

Being in my son’s room makes me feel close to him. I go over the books in his bookcase; a collection of Beatles books, Rolling Stone’s Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll, The Gig Bag Book of Guitar, Six By Seuss, The Football Book, Graffiti World, Pedro and Me, among others. I open his closet and I see the bag of stuffed toys he decided to keep. He is on a crossroad, caught between adulthood and childhood. While I would give anything to hug my son good-night, as we always did before he left, I understood that my job (and his Dad's) has been done raising him from being a baby to being a young adult and now he needs a whole different community to help prepare him for his future.

However, despite my best efforts not to show it, I miss my son greatly. It was clear that he wanted to wean himself from the structure at home and “annoying parental control” we exercised over him before he left. But before we let him go, we made him sign a contract between himself and us, that in exchange for eight (8) semesters of excellent performance in college, his parents would pay for tuition, room and board, clothes, information technology gadgets and access, books, allowance, providing among other things that he does not get in trouble with neither the university nor the government , and providing further that he would communicate with his parents his grade status in school. We also added a provision, for good measure, requiring him to engage in a meaningful and friendly conversation with us over dinner, at least once a week when he is home from college. While he agreed, at first reluctantly, to most of the clauses of the Contract, he asked to strike the paragraph requiring him to engage in a joyful conversation with his parents when he is visiting from college. He asserted that we could not contractually bind him to his emotions. I wonder if he figured out why we put it in there in the first place. We agreed, and we concurred, and we struck it from the contract.

At some point after he was born, I stopped crying. Everyone told me that I needed to be strong. He should not see me cry. I had to relearn how to cry. The therapist told me that it was okay for a child to see a parent cry. It shows a child that crying is normal. She told me that that it is normal to have appropriate reactions to each situation. In other words, I should not always be the calm and in control supermom.

After that meeting, I went home and parked my car behind a grocery store and did a quick reflection of my life and I cried like I have never before. All through those years of making decisions that affected my little son and myself, I had built a wall between me and my emotions. As a consequence, I started feeling a stranger inside myself. I was not real anymore.

I wanted the old me with a strong mind and sensitivity to other people’s feelings. I wanted to cry at sad movies and I wanted to laugh at the absurdities of life. I heeded the advice of my therapist. Shortly thereafter, when I cried in front of my pre-schooler, he handed me a Band-aid saying, “Mommy, put this on your eyes so they would not hurt anymore.” When I looked in his eyes, his innocence and concern for me reduced me to an indescribable feeling of gratitude for being his mother.

Now, he is a young man who is not intimidated by big words and not impressed by material things. He celebrates his being “culturally androgynous,” and takes pride in being a child of a multiracial background. When we let go of him, we did not expect that he would take to being in college like fish taking to water. We were concerned that he would opt to disappear into the crowd, happy just to go with the current flow. On the one hand, that maybe a good thing but on the other hand, we were hoping that he would take advantage of his very unique self; the boy who is gutsy enough to pick purple as his favorite color and does not care what others think of him and is confident about his fashion choices, the one who formed a cult-movie club or used his camera to film crazy plots with his friends. We were impressed by his sense of individuality and we hope that he would take advantage of his self confidence. We should not have been too worried.

Two weeks ago, I was in front of huge bins of pears at the supermarket. I cried. My son loves pears. I could not bring myself to buy Gala apples. The very sight of them bring knots into my throat. When he was young, he would kiss a Gala apple before eating one, exclaiming, “Mom, these apples are so pretty, I just want to kiss each of them!” I heard Queen’s Freddie Mercury singing and I thought of Kris imitating Freddie and regaling me about his life story. Mama mia, mama mia! I thought of the time we went to London where his dad and he went to a West Side show of a group who relived a Queen concert. I think of him often but he is exploring his newly found freedom and his thoughts are not with what he left behind.

I think of all the times he would try to entertain or shock me with a YouTube clip. Our home is quiet since he left. He is not here to make me laugh. I seldom hear from him. Now that he is in college, it is as though he has forgotten about those whom he left behind.

I was running out of tricks in my bag for him to call or text message me. I sent him a check. Nothing. I wrote him an email signing off with my first name vs. ‘Mom.’ Nothing. I sent some fruits. Nothing. Desperate situation merits desperate action. So I sent him a text message.

“KrS, what is ur problem w/ me? Tell me what I hv done 2 u that u won’t respond 2 me. Tell me NOW!!”

He texted back, “Mom, what? Calm down please. Im js terribly busy. I texted you.”

I responded, “Texted my a$$! I hv not recd a text fm u! U r Busy? We r busy 2 but when u need us, we stop evrythng n giv u all our tym! Leche! U behave lk u hv no PARENTS!!!

My Bb was hot. It kept telling me the "field was full" but I was fired up. So I edited, “Wht txt? Txt my a$$! Nothing! We r b c 2 bt when u need us we giv u all our time. LECHE! U act lk u hv no PARENTS!”

Then I scrolled my Blackberry and found his text to me half an hour earlier that I did not see. “Mom, hi, been busy, I got a 97.5 out of 100 on my exam and I now have a radio show. College is great. Will email you later. Much love, K”

I texted him back, full of regret for my schizo text a minute ago. “Wow! Awesome grade! Radio show? Proud of you! Love, Mom”

He must know his Mom is a good egg; cracked but a good egg. I felt like the biggest bleeping fool. I felt like a total jerk acting out. I went home late and an hour later, I received an email from him. I was so happy I wanted his Dad to hear what he had to say so I read aloud:

“Hey Mom sorry, I was really busy….I am really liking the mind bending lectures of Dr.Prof ….I like college, I am enjoying so you should enjoy yourself too. With regard to the TV in my room, fret not, it is not an issue.
“Check this out, I now have a radio show on Saturdays. The administrators like that I am not playing regular college radio stuff. I have friends in MD who listen on the stream. You might not like it and it is also very late so just go to sleep.
Please do not cry. Your crying makes my Dad stressed out and I end up having to deal with it.

I love both of you guys very much but I just do not have the time to talk to you all the time. I will call Sunday. Much love…”

How did he know I was crying? I looked at my husband. I said, “How did he know I was crying when I did not speak to him? I only texted him.” He sheepishly murmured, “Busted.” Apparently, someone emailed this college kid and said, “However busy you are, your mom is missing you a lot, she has been crying. Get on your butt right now and send your mother, a short email to tell her that you are fine.”

All the guilt I felt went down the drain. He deserved to be textYELLED!

Friday night eased into Saturday past midnight. A very special midnight for us. We could not wait to hear him on the air. His Dad checked the university website and thought of how he could archive his son’s show on the PC. What do you mean sleep? This was big. This was a milestone.

He told us while he was in high-school that he wanted to become a radio personality. His Dad advised him to get started in college. Our friend told him that he himself had a radio show while in college. Kris had only been in college for a month! He stepped out of his comfort zone and chased his dream of being on the radio.

We waited patiently for 1:00am DC time, midnight Kansas time. I was online and my husband was online downstairs as well. We listened to the music playing before our son’s show came on. To call it different was an understatement. It was weird. The music sounded like new wave meets heavy metal meets tribal and back- to- the- future, stoner’s music. It was psychedelic. My husband came upstairs and when we looked at each other, we both said, in unison, “WEIRD!” But still we listened, then it was 1:00am. Silence. I stared at the screen.

Then I heard my son’s voice “on the air.” “This is KristofferG here, just woke up from a nap. It is 76 degrees, this is KJHK University of Kansas in Lawrence so we are locked and loaded, so let's fire it up... then he eased into music. ‘We must be in Love…” His dad and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and exclaimed, “WOW!”

He likes Prince, High Society, Kanye West, Michael Jackson, Sam Cooke, D’Angelo, Beatles, Queen, Led Zep, even Bob Marley among countless others. He had guitar lessons for over seven years and has had exposure to classical music. I remember the day he told us he did not like to see the National Philharmonic anymore. “Mom and Dad, I have had enough exposure to classical music. I do not want to go with you to the symphony anymore. It is depressing. It smells of old people there. The symphony is for grandparents.”

At KJHK meanwhile, he was spinning discs and then suddenly, there was silence. Then we heard a needle scratch vinyl. The boy was born in the age of CDs and DVDs. How would he know how to cue an LP album? Then we could hear the scratchy sound of needle over vinyl. He named the artists he picked, an ecclectic playlist and we were nodding our heads in agreement. That is the boy we know! Temptations to Prince to Beatles to J.Dilla. His choices, so far, are good, but generally not for anyone over forty. They are not, by any stretch "easy listening" music. However, I am used to them. I have had previous exposure to them. Many afternoons after he is done studying, he would call me downstairs. “Mom, I want you to listen to this artist.” “Kris! OMG, I am not sure about this. Okay, I think I like it. I mean it is not oppressive. ” Or at times, “What is this? No, thank you!” “Kris, enough, I don’t like it. It is boring.” I would raise my hands up, roll my eyes and walk away while he would laugh at my reaction.

When he was younger, he heard me playing the melody of “In My Life” on the piano. He said he could not believe I knew the song. He would smile when I react to a Beatles song or Michael Jackson’s songs. I loved “I Will” as I also loved “Got To be There.” So I texted him, “K! I am listening to your program. I like the songs you are playing. U r doing great. Mr. DJ, pls play In my Life by d Beatles?

He responded, “I will play a different Beatles song.” and I thought, he really is his own person now. He just told me, didn’t he? What would he play, Lucy in the Skies with Diamonds, perhaps?

Feeling stymied by his response, I texted, “That is fine. Goodnight n pls b careful getting bk to your dorm. Love. Peace. Mom” He smiles when I use his words “peace, hating, chill, cool, shamona” with him. I try to communicate in his ‘language’ but I often times get lost in translation.

Ecactly three minutes later, the Beatles came on. As I stared and listened in disbelief, the song came on:

“Who knows how long I’ve loved you, you know I love you still, Will I wait a lonely lifetime, If you want me to, I will.

Love your forever and forever , love you with all my heart, Love you whenever we’re together, love you when we’re apart…”

"… For the things you do, endear you to me, oh you know I will. I will."

My tears started on the first note. I longed to see the face of the boy I love of “all the boys in the whole wide world.” Hearing him over the stream brought him physically close to me. I was hanging on to the sound of my son’s voice. I wanted to embrace him but it was just his voice over the stream, “on the air.”

My son is the pulse of my heart and the life behind my soul. I do declare that loving him is the most selfless kind of love I feel. The unconditional love of parents makes children feel safe in taking that love for granted. They know that it will always be there no matter what. But at this particular moment, when my son gifted me with a song that he knew has always moved me, I felt "much loved," by him, as he always tells me when he wants to assure us of his love. (Or get out of a difficult situation with his parents.)

I texted him, “Anak, u r playing my song. U r making me cry. Goodnight my dear son! U make me so proud. “

His response was classic ‘Kris.’ He played “In My Life”, as his penultimate spin, but not by the Beatles. The vocalist sounded like he had just a lobotomy, or too much scotch. Kris knew I would be laughing my head off. And I was. I was sleepy but I had to TextAsk, "Who is this guy butchering my favorite song?"

No response. What did I expect? I went to sleep at the sound of his voice, signing off and handing over the helm to the next DJ.

This morning, there was a text message from him: “Haha, that was Johnny Cash!”

Winning the Part of Mrs...Part 6 of Many

From this moment, life has begun...
----Shania Twain

After we signed the pre-nuptial agreement (prenup), fiancé (FE) and I decided to wed in the Spring. When he asked how we were to proceed, I told him, “If we are going to have a much-to-do wedding , we need to do it the Filipino way and that means the groom pays for the wedding. If we do it the American way, we will have a problem. I am not going to spend my money on a wedding. Whatever money I have saved is for my son.”

Lesson – remain true to your cultural norm, especially if it is irresponsible not to.

Furthermore, I have never in my life, fantasized about marching down the aisle, wearing a ton of make- up, hair stiff with lacquer, wearing some drag queen jewelry, a white wedding gown as though I was sweet and pure. You know how some women said that all they did when they were young was to fantasize being a princess and marrying a prince? How sexist! Really! When I was a young girl, I fantasized about being a hippie wearing lots of bangles, wearing a long skirt, and living in a theater commune. Girls should instead fantasize of being the ruler, be the one to see if the boy fits the shoe! Anyway, I was a forty something bride. At this point, a short ceremony before a court official would have sufficed. I could not imagine being a blushing bride and if I were blushing at any point past my 37th birthday, I probably was having hot flashes. And finally, I come fully packaged with a first grader. Indeed, I was not interested in a big wedding. However, FE said he wanted to give me a proper wedding.

We considered getting married in the Philippine Embassy but we found out that if we did that, our marriage would have been “officiated in the Philippines”, as the embassy is legally part of the Philippines. I did not particularly favor one church over the other. The Catholics did not want FE to use their church! He was divorced and was a sinner. On the other hand, I was born and raised and baptized and confirmed a Roman Catholic, I became a protestant at 16 without the Catholics knowing anything about it, I had a child out of wedlock but never married in church so I was viewed as deserving of the Catholic rites and blessings and has the right to kiss the Pope’s ring. Not FE! Not good enough! So we decided to go “Catholic light.” Light on guilt. Allows you to dip the host in wine. Gives communion to everyone. My kind of church. We were going to be wed at the cathedral of Saint Agnes and Bernadette, a historical, beautiful Anglican cathedral in town. Go King Henry!

The next issue was the date. It could not happen just anytime in Spring. First, I was in the center of a theater production. I was directing a flagship production for the Philippine Centennial, to be mounted during the week of the Philippine Independence Day. We were rehearsing every weekend and every waking moment I had, when I was not working was spent visualizing, creating, planning, and honestly had no time to spare for a wedding. And so, with the blessing of my cast and crew, I took one weekend in April to have a church wedding. Planning for the wedding was easy. First of all, I knew that the lead actors would show up. There was only one rehearsal, there were no prima donnas to deal with. There’s only one performance. He and I get to choose the audience. We decided the Cherry Blossom week would be good and a trip to Europe in June right after the play was staged would be a good respite; in fact we would leave the day after the last performance.

A week before the wedding, I was changing my son’s clothes. Seated on my lap, I noticed he was crying so I asked him what was wrong. He looked at me and asked, “Mommy, do you really, really love me?” “Mommy loves you of all the little boys in the whole wide world.” “Then why am I giving you away?” “You are not giving me away.” “You said at the wedding, I will give you away. I do not want to give you away,” he said as his tears flowed. “Oh no, that was not meant for you to give me to someone. It only meant that you are going to lead the way for me to Tatay. We will walk together…” “I do not want to give you away! Mommy, please do not make me give you away.” “No, you do not have to, Anak. Hush, it is okay… See, I am here and you will not give me away. Will you walk with me to the altar because I will be too scared I may not be able to? “ “No, I will walk by myself. I will wear my tuxedo and I will look like James Bond. I will be your ring boy and Tatay’s best boy, ‘kay?” “Okay, you got yourself a deal! Tahan na, anak. Do not cry anymore. Mommy will never, ever leave you behind, okay? Remember, we are a team you and I. I love you, always. Always.” “Ok. Always. Now let’s read Harry Potter. Mommy, is Hagrid a redneck?”

It was seasonably rainy on my wedding day. The cherry blossoms were scattered like snowflakes on the emerald green grass. The world sparkled through the prism of gentle rain drops. I walked to the waiting car, with little Kris holding on to my hand.

He was crying earlier because his shoes were too big so I gave him a pair of woolen Christmas socks to wear and he loved them! I put my hair up, put my make-up on, put my wedding dress on, a simple sheath made of Philippine pineapple silk fiber with rice pearls adorning it, a pearl tiara an tulle veil, and an old pair of cream leather shoes, and I was ready to walk down the aisle. Checking my list of "props," I made a mental note. Something old: me; something new: pearl tiara; something borrowed: sister Carme’s wedding veil; something blue: engagement ring. Seemed like I was ready to get married.

We were half walking, half skipping to the car when my little boy slid and fell on his buttocks on the sidewalk. He let out a cry but I pulled him up and said, “Whoa! What a brave little James Bond!” I almost went down with him but I caught myself and I could see the amused look on our chauffer’s face. Victor, my husband’s favorite chauffer, who spoke with an elegant British accent, greeted me, “Good morning Madam. Shall we take you to your groom?” “We shall, thank you very much, Victor!” With a smile in his eyes and much happy chatter between me and my BFF and my overflowing love for the handsome little boy seated next to me, I was on my way to say “I do” to my beloved glow-in- the- dark white knight in shining armor.

It was not a stage, but all the characters were there. My audience was not that big and the venue was solemn and the musician was cuing me for my entrance. There were beautiful ferns and flowers adorning the church. The two little girls went first, so pretty in their matching crisp white dresses, each carrying a bouquet of white flowers, walking behind them was my little boy, then there was just myself and no one else. It was an out of body experience.

I was cuing myself: Curtain! Enter. Walk, do not run, hello? Slowly. Smile. Jeez, float! I was seeing and thinking in slow mo: my friend L was there, hahaha, did she just get a face lift!? J and A, wow, she lost a lot of weight, both look happy, geez they should allow same sex marriage. Oh, E, you look good in that color, girlfriend, eeeeee! eeeeee! Can you believe this? A, hey, hee-hee-hee, I told you I was not going to screw this one up. See? I was multi-thinking in rapid Taglish, “Okay,kay,kay!”, What? Sige,sige, sige walk na! Ano ba, OMG, get a hold of yourself! Grabe! Nay ko po! Shishkebabs! Is this real or is this Memorex? Hahahaha. This is so scary. Yikes!

I needed to enjoy the moment. Instead I was freaking out. I was thinking, laughing, crying all inside my head. It seemed forever to get to the altar.

Inside my head: I was thinking: OMG, this guy has really lost it. He truly is waiting down the aisle for me. I was laughing: He is not running to the nearest exit! I was crying and saying: He is so reliably, devotedly, lovingly waiting for me. Then I saw a sea of jusi and pinya outfits - my family, my young nieces and nephews and sisters and brother and sister-in-law and my heart swelled with all the love I have for them and all the love they have for me. I saw my friends who have been through so many roads with me and I saw my FE’s friends and family. Yikes! This production was awesome. I stopped saying, crying, and laughing inside my head. That was schizo, alright! I calmed down. I smiled and I continued floating down the aisle.

“For better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death us do part…

Pangako sa iyo, ipaglalaban ko, sa hirap at ginhawa ang ating pag-ibig. Upang di magkalayo kaylan man..."

Having said our vows, wedding songs sung, rings exchanged, we officially became husband and wife. We proceeded to the reception site. Union Station was filled with tourists. And the Ringling Brothers had an exhibit on the promenade. The circus was in town. What an appropriately wonderful way to send us on our way! I threw my bouquet from the top of the stairs of the cafe to the delight of my friends, family and total strangers trying to catch it.

Two weeks or so before our wedding, FE called me and asked me if I would make a call to the pastry shop. It seems that everyone told him that we had to have a wedding cake. It was the last thing on my mind and his too. He did not like cake, he would rather have a wedding cookie. I was busy with my play and could not be bothered by of all things, cake! But I had a favorite French bakery in town and FE called them. He told me that they insisted to talk to the bride. So I called them and asked them to bake a pear mousse cake. Mr. French baker or whatever you call him in Francais was nice but I could hardly understand him. He wanted me to come and choose a design. No design monsieur, just a plain sheet of mousse cake please. He wanted me to choose a decoration – a bride and groom on top of the cake. Were they thinking like a white guy and a brown doll perhaps? No thanks. What, like a Mr. and Ms. United Nations about to skate on ice? No, merci beau coups. I just want a plain sheet of pear mousse. D'accord. I thought.

During the reception, my newly minted husband (HB) told me. “I had them cut the cake already.” It appeared that the restaurant staff called him into the kitchen to show him the cake and to ask him what he wanted to do. They opened the box, and the cake said, “Café at Union Station.” It seemed like Mr. Frenchesco wrote the destination of the cake instead of “Congratulations HB and GE" (ok, GE for gorgeous). We laughed so hard, nothing else could go wrong, but did, and made our wedding all the more memorable. Lessons for my non-existent daughter on planning a wedding.

1. Get real, it is just a wedding. Worry more about the marriage.

2. KISS it. (Keep It Simple Stupid).

3. Ask your friends to take photos. They provide the most realistic view of your day. Our photographer failed to produce one single useful photo.

4. Laugh at the “unfortunate” happenings. Those become the memories you relive through the years. Worry about substance over form.

5. Marry the one you love, and only the one you love!

6. And last and more importantly, celebrate marrying a frugal guy, he would always have money stashed away somewhere. I promise.

Two months later, my cast and crew had a gala opening of “Filipinas, Circa 1905”, at the Marvin Center, George Washington University. We had a very good review. Our production henceforth became part of Fil-Am theater history in the Washington, DC area. I was once more a true Anak-Tibawan, proud of my University of the Philippines theater background and proud to be a Filipino kilos-sining.

The day after our final performance, Mr. Victor took us to the airport .“Have a pleasant trip, Mrs. Russell. See you when you get back, Madam.” Whoa! Did he really call me Mrs. R? Here's the deal, this is serious, serious business! My name has changed, and I was still reeling from the previous night’s discussion, which was a meltdown about his name and mine together on checks and a credit card with my first name and his name on it. Oh. My. God.

We boarded a Swiss Air flight bound for Rome, Italy.

“Please do not get used to this.”