Tragedy because our director cum choreographer cum scriptwriter walked out on us.
Comedy because our director cum choreographer cum scriptwriter walked out on us.
For those who are still confused with what these metal and precious stones symbolize, a silver jubilarian is one who has been out of high school for 25 years. If you’ve heard this high school stuff before in my previous articles, please forgive me. I must admit that this is my third article on our homecoming. If I have to write something light and relaxing for a Sunday issue, nothing beats writing about a bunch of fortysomething Chinays preparing for a song-and-dance presentation for their homecoming.
I’m not claiming to be a sociologist, but I’m convinced that when it comes to singing and dancing, Chinoys are the opposite of Pinoys. Singing and dancing come naturally to Pinoys, and it makes some of us Chinoys pretty envious.
Well, Pinoys like to say that anyway, math comes naturally to Chinoys. Unfortunately, I am an exception to that theory – I still can’t balance a balance sheet. I think I failed to get the math gene of my dad. Anyway, for Chinese pop groups like F4 to achieve such fame comes in as rare as the eclipse, although I’m not sure if it’s their voices rather than their looks that captivate every teenage girl and dirty old woman in the Philippines. A friend of mine who cannot understand the F4 phenomenon asked her niece, "What do you like about F4? You don’t even understand what they’re singing!" To which her niece replied, "Auntie, you like listening to Italian opera. Do you understand what they’re singing?" Anyway, back to our homecoming, it is a tradition that the hosting batch, in this case Batch 1978, perform a number onstage along with other batches at the school’s auditorium. I have no idea how this tradition started. Other schools would just host a formal dinner or a concert, or invite a sexy star to dance on stage, but in the case of ICA, the silver jubilarians have to perform in their own concert. Many times, a professional artist is hired to do the main act, but the hosting batch, by some queer reason, has to do a number. Maybe the one who started this tradition wanted to break the stereotype of the Chinoy who can’t perform on stage. In any case, this is the one thing that we fear most, performing on stage, but ironically, this is one of the rare moments that gets us united again as a batch after 25 years.
In our case, it was understood that Batch 1963, 1968, 1973, 1983 and 1988 (notice the multiples of five?) would be performing with us. To make sure we wouldn’t make fools of ourselves, we hired one guy who spends his time between the academe and the stage and who comes from a classical music background, to direct, choreograph and write the entire show. And this was the same guy who walked out on us six weeks before the homecoming.
This guy truly had a wonderful voice and could choreograph an original dance number overnight. We welcomed him like a breath of fresh air. After all, it was bad enough that we did not have the natural talent for song and dance in our blood, and that we were already in our 40s, and that the last time we danced was during our PE demonstrations in high school. With the exception of one batchmate who became a professional singer and another one who plays in a band part-time, the rest of us went into non-artistic professions that didn’t require the voice of a nightingale or the flexibility of an earthworm. So we welcomed Mr. Professor who would introduce us to the exciting new world of performing arts.
Horror of horrors, Mr. Professor turned out to be the reincarnation of our terror math teacher in Grade 5. We were reduced to gradeschoolers where we’d be asked to raise our hands in case we had any questions, only to be insulted again for asking such a silly question. After every new song line and dance step came an insult that we were worse than kindergarten kids when it came to following instructions. It was insult after insult after insult so much so that we spent more time in our practice sessions listening to his insults than practicing our number. It was admittedly a struggle to follow his footsteps (forgive the pun), but hey, we weren’t that bad. Said a batchmate of mine, "I think someone forgot to tell him that we were all still show amateurs. Ask what the price of San Miguel shares or cooking oil per liter is and someone in the group will know. Unfortunately, knowing where "downstage left" is and understanding the intricacies of "blocking" is not essential in our lives. Don’t get me wrong. Talent is talent. But if everyone were equally talented, who’d watch the show? Besides, last time I looked, not being artistically inclined was not a criminal act for which one must be subjected to hours of endless lectures.
Mr. Professor walked out during the session with Batch 1973. Some wise guy might think that anyone had the right to walk out on a dance practice by a group of ladies who graduated from high school 30 years ago. But no, he walked out for the flimsiest of reasons. It was because one of our batchmates decided to turn on the music while he was on rest break. Batch 1973 had been practicing with him without music for the past hour and wanted to try to dance with the music. The choreographer thought that we wanted to take over his job, suddenly went into a fit and walked out, but not after pointing a roll of paper at the nose of the one who turned on the music. Whew.
So now we have been practicing with the help of a kinder artistic director, thank you.
It’s funny that when you go back to the stuff you did in high school like perform dance numbers, you go back to your old formation 25 years ago. In other words, those who could follow the dance steps would stay in the front and those who don’t know what they’re doing would be asked to stay at the back where people can’t see them. When it comes to singing, for those people who can’t reach the note, there’s always lip-synching. In both cases, I had to be tossed where people won’t see nor hear me. Come to think of it, that should make it a better show to watch. So in case someone forces you to buy tickets to watch our homecoming at the ICA school grounds on November 22, and if you can’t see nor hear me, you know why.