Becoming / Fig Trees / Inter-Mezzo
At this point I was making headway into becoming an opera singer despite my late start; I was progressing in voice competitions, had some performances under my belt, and winning some scholarships. Then I started having vibrato and pitch issues, I doubled down and trained harder but they got progressively worse. Then I started spacing out mid-aria, my mind would wander but I would still continue singing the right notes and words and only realize where I was when the music ended. I had no connection with what I was told to sing and I started thinking about what it would mean if I won the final round of the vocal competitions and sang professionally; I would have to work with cliquish singers, sing “suitable” repertoire foisted upon me, directors and opera queens telling me how I should sound – all of which I hated. Why was I killing myself to conform to the standards of those I despised?
I finally got it. My vocal troubles were because I was not longer in control of my voice, my outlet of expression – people were shaping my voice to their expectations. It was too light for some, too dark for others, not “baroque” sounding like countertenors (though I detested the contemporary misinterpretation of early music) etc. etc. I had tried modulating my voice to suit but it was no longer mine. Just as I could not stand to see photos of myself because there was a disorienting disconnect between who I was and who was represented, I could not stand to listen to recordings of myself because the voice I heard sounded like an alien.
Achieving a dream I realized, is not the end but a beginning. Like surmounting an obstacle or summiting a mountain, you marvel at where you started from but you cannot stay there. Sometimes the view you worked so hard for is not what you had expected and that is fine; there are still other mountains left to climb. I told Roxolana I was dropping out of the voice competitions and it would be our last session together. She tried talking me out of it and I was startled to see her tear up. She told me I was very talented and had made great progress in the short time, and she had no doubt I would have succeeded. But she conceded, “It means nothing if you are unhappy.”
Partly as a swan song, and partly to try and recover part of my original strange “arresting” sound, I put together a final show “Becoming (or, is there life after opera?)”; an eclectic cabaret set whose songs charted my journey in pursuing my adolescent dream of being an opera singer and how it was linked to my struggle for acceptance, my life in exile, and ultimately rediscovering my voice. It is too intimate part of me and my inner expression to make it a career, and be shaped by the whims and tastes of others.
I have reflected since on the extent in which the aspiration of singing opera came from being westernized / colonized. How that dream isolated me from original culture and becoming a stranger at home, and a stranger abroad. I would wonder and wrestle with how then to make it authentic, and respect who I am vs. a facsimile of colonist desire and standards. All these would crystallize 6 years later in my first award winning experimental film Inter-Mezzo.
Inter-mezzo was not just an extension of Becoming, but probably would not have happened without Becoming. Without Becoming, David Wall’s mother-in-law would not have heard me sing, she would not have told David about me, and David would not have told John Greyson (whom he was collaborating with on a new film) about me, and John would not have created the role of Saint Caesura for me in his genre-defying award-winning experimental film Fig Trees about AIDS activism and sainthood.
Of course I knew none of that back then. Back then I received an email from John Greyson a few months after Becoming asking if I would be interested in participating in a film that mixes documentary and opera he was working on. I replied it sounded interesting, but I was not a member of ACTRA. While I was studying at RCM, I was approached about a countertenor role in Murray Schafer’s premiere of “The Children’s Crusade” but it was taken away when they found I was not a member of ACTRA – ACTRA like “canadian experience” is one of those Catch-22s whereby you cannot get a job without one, but there is no way to attain one without a job.
I figured that was the end of it but John sent me a reply a few weeks later that it was not a problem and attached the script and music. What I did not know at that time (and only emerged when I worked with John and David on other projects over the years) was that to cast me for the role of Saint Caesura, they had to audition other people for the role and demonstrate to ACTRA that I was the only person suitable.
To be honest, I was not sure whether I wanted to do it at that time. I did not know all that had transpired prior to John offering me the role. I had walked away from my dream of an opera career and unsure whether to do something like that again. I did not know at that time that working with John and observing him would later revive an interest in the social and political potential of experimental visual forms that began with “North South” and had fallen aside when I was forced to flee and survive over the years. Ultimately I decided to do it despite the opera aspect because I was curious about the music dubbing aspect of working in film. I would later use my observations on how David and John worked to formulate my own approach for my own films.
To be equally honest, working on Fig Trees was not pleasant. Saint Caesura, true to his/her namesake, was a gratuitous role, a break from the arch of the film; you could cut out the two scenes I was in and the film would still be wont for nothing. Perhaps because of the afterthought or last minute nature of the role/casting, I was not forewarned of schedules or changes. Out of the blue, I received an email from a PA (Production Assistant) to remind me the recording session to lay down my vocal track was tomorrow evening. Well I was never informed that I had a recording session tomorrow, nor did I receive the backup tracks. They forwarded me the backup tracks and I had less than 24 hours to learn and practice so that my vocal line (which stayed uncomfortably high in my tessitura) synced up with the backup. Radio silence for many weeks after the recording session, then another email from a PA that contained tomorrow’s shooting schedule for my first scene. Have I memorized the final track to lip sync for the scene? Umm, I have not received the final track yet. They sent it over and again I had less than 24 hours to learn and practice.
When I arrived at wardrobe and makeup the next day, I was informed that John had changed my original costume at the last minute into a fluorescent yellow and pink spandex with rubber fetish chainmail topped with a silver Miao headdress. For someone with body image issues like me, it was a terrifying prospect. “Are you alright with this change?” she asked cautiously as she laid it out in front of me.
“It is John’s film not mine” I replied diplomatically and submitted myself to the two hours it took to tease my hair up with toilet rolls to pin on the headdress and paint my skin silver. Shortly after they finished, I was called on set. “Can you give me 10 minutes?” I asked, I had to steel my nerves for the inevitable laughter that was to come. Indeed, the entire cast and crew fell apart in stitches when I emerged on set. “Oh my god! Oh my god!” they cried before breaking down again while I stood there and smiled.
Boxer/Thumper/Bella
Bob and I started volunteering at the Humane Society; we would show up the weekends we were free to bring the rabbits fresh greens and take care of them. It was during one of those weekends that we met Boxer, big senior rabbit with cancer that was dumped on the side of the road. The coordinator begged me to adopt Boxer. The cages they had were not big enough, he could hardly move around and just laid there depressed and listless. No one wanted to adopt a big rabbit, let alone a big senior rabbit, let alone a big senior rabbit with cancer; he would just hang around there until he died.
It was Boxer that made me interested in providing a hospice and caring for special needs rabbits. The coordinator was happy someone was willing to give Boxer a comfortable life for his remaining days. However due to concerns around Boxer’s condition and potential liabilities, it took a few weeks and rounds of additional paperwork and clearance for the adoption process to be finalized (one of which was I cannot surrender Boxer back to the Humane Society). When I finally brought Boxer home (we were still living at the house of Bob’s friend) from the Humane Society and opened up the carrier in his enclosure, he peeked his head out and realized someone wanted him again. His eyes lit up and he furled his ears so wide they were almost the size of my hands.
When I brought you home
you explored its limits
transformed
from listless waitingCuriosity
and joy
from being wantedand so was I
Boxer – from Terrible Sanities
Boxer was a big boy, almost three feet long and he seemed to understand what people were saying. Whenever I teased him while petting him with “Boxer, you are so handsome. Will you be my boyfriend?”, he would bolt and run into his enclosure, plant himself in the middle of his litter box with ears furled and an expression that seemed to suggest “I like you but not in that way”. After he had settled in, I introduced him to the other rabbits.
He got along with Munchkin and Pixie. Pixie was Munchkin’s companion, a mini lop the same color as him. Munchkin got lonely and depressed when I left the house for voice lessons, for renovations, for freelance jobs etc. hence I decided to find him a companion. When I brought Pixie home and opened the carrier, she and Munchkin caught sight of one another at the opposite ends of the room and ran towards each other before I could stop them. They kissed and had been inseparable since – it was literally love at first sight.
However Ginger (a rabbit Bob insisted on adopting the day we met Boxer because he thought she looked cute) went berserk. She attacked Boxer and bit his leg drawing blood. Not only that, she turned and fought with Munchkin and Pixie whom she’d been living peacefully with the past few weeks. I quickly separated them and ultimately segregated Ginger into another room, because try as I might she would not be friends again.
Perhaps because of the cancer, Boxer’s bite wound did not heal despite repeated visits to the vet and my daily administrations of antibiotics and wound dressing. But Boxer did not let it bother him, it was a minor inconvenience at the most. He still loved running around the room and attacked celery stalks with gusto like a puppy with a bone.
On the last visit to the vet, she checked Boxer’s wounded leg and exclaimed “Oh my god! This is awful!” Then the cunt went around the office brandishing Boxer like an object and showing his leg to each staff member “Doesn’t this look terrible? Have you seen anything worse?” I was furious and I never returned to that clinic again. Her words must have gotten to him as Boxer was uncharacteristically subdued on the ride home, he just laid at the bottom of the carrier. When I returned Boxer to his enclosure, the wound the vet had patched up burst and clotted blood spread out on the carpet. I was too spent to clean it up like I usually did so I just sat with Boxer for a while and left the room to sort out my moods. When I later returned to clean it up, Boxer had licked the carpet clean. I hugged and kissed him with a heavy heart “I’m sorry, so sorry. Fuck the vet, Don’t listen to her, I’ll take care of you. We’ll show her. She can go shove a cactus up there. I’m sorry. You did not have clean up you silly boy. I’m so sorry.”
The next morning, I woke to the noise of Munchkin and Pixie trying to get into Boxer’s area. He was weak, trying to stay upright in his litter box and his fur was matted and stained with urine and caked in feces. He even refused his favorite raspberries. We carried him to the bathroom to try and clean him up to make him more comfortable, as I started to clean his matted fur he gasped and died.
Before Boxer, I have never cried for anyone else, nor have I cried as much. It was something I always thought I was incapable of. I was crying as I washed his body clean, I was crying as I dried his fur – Boxer had never looked so pristine. Munchkin (and later with Pixie) taught me that love was being present and having empathy and consideration for another. With Boxer, I learned that love is also regret. I was crying as I rode the bus with his body in a box to our new house that was undergoing renovations; I had planned a space for him to roam and had built a nook under the staircase for him. I was crying when I dug the hole in the backyard I was still landscaping, I was crying when I kissed him one last time in the faint hope my encompassing grief would somehow move the Gods to bring him back. I was crying as I buried him and planted a raspberry bush for him.
Multitudes pass by
In-difference (for Boxer) – from Terrible Sanities
How could they fail to notice
my tear-tattooed eyes
The next day, Bob dragged me to the Humane Society despite my protests; I did not want to adopt another rabbit, but he thought I would feel better if I went to see the rabbits. It was over a month after Easter and not only were the built-in cages full of abandoned rabbits, the available floor space had multiple rows of wire rabbit hutches (the sort one finds at pet stores) wall to wall with a rabbit inside. There were so many abandoned Easter rabbits that the hutches were stacked atop the other; it was a very depressing and distressing sight.
As we walked through the room of callously abandoned rabbits, we thought we heard someone knocking, but there was no one at the door when we looked. That happened a few times, so we investigated to pinpoint the source of the knocking. It turned out whenever we walked past a particular male rabbit who was at the bottom layer in the midst of that mass of hutches, he would dash up along the wire walls and thump his feet against them, thus creating the knocking sound.
We stood aside and observed when other people walked by him, no reaction. No reaction when Bob walked by. But each time I walked by, he would dash along the wire walls and thump his feet to get my attention. So I asked the coordinator if it was okay for me to pet him. She said yes, since she was familiar with me both as a volunteer and an adopter. I moved the hutch that was resting atop his and leaned over to open the top hatch, intending to reach in with my other hand to pet him. Once I opened the top hatch, he leapt straight onto my chest and clung on. The message was clear, he had chosen me and wanted me to take him home. No one had ever chosen me before, so I did. Although I named him Thumper then, he never thumped again after I brought him home.
After we moved into our renovated house, we brought Thumper to the Humane Society to find him a companion. I had tried bonding him with Ginger but she kept bullying him and pulling out his fur, so I had to separate them. Munchkin and Pixie had free run of the main bedroom and the plan was to give Thumper and his companion free run of the smaller bedroom which had been converted into two adjoining office spaces. Bunny speed dating involves setting up an enclosure and monitoring the behavior between rabbits, however all the adult female rabbits we tried introducing to Thumper showed unrelenting aggression towards Thumper. There was one more female rabbit left, the coordinator informed us, a baby bunny who was so abused they had to amputate one of her hind legs. Without seeing her and without hesitation, I instantly said I would adopt her and give her a good life (regardless of whether she got along with Thumper). Still, we introduced her to Thumper and she took an instant liking to Thumper, even though he was still hesitant. They would grow to love each other and spend the evenings lying side by side kissing.
Bella was a mini lop with helicopter ears (she could hold her ears up or down or sideways independently) and somehow smelled of baby powder. Hence Bella and Thumper became the “office kitten bunnies” as she had markings like an orange calico cat, while he had the markings of a Siamese cat. Having been abused, Bella was understandably cautious interacting with humans. She grew to trust me through a combo of my patient overtures and Thumper transforming from a rambunctious rascal into a gallant gent – he would let her eat first (even though it meant sacrificing his treats), and stand watch over her when she rested. As our bond grew, whenever Bella wanted her ear scratched, she would scamper to me on her three legs with the ear to be scratched cocked upwards; when I took a break from working at the computer, I would find Bella sleeping under my chair while Thumper snuggled beside her. When I adopted Bella, they told me I would have to keep clean the side of her body that was missing the leg as she would not be able to groom properly. I was watching Bella sleep under my chair one day (she had the cutest snore and her legs would twitch as if she were dreaming of running) when she woke up and shook her head. In a move I had never seen before, she rolled onto her back and twisted her body so that her front paws could reach the side of her body with the missing leg and proceeded to groom herself. I was moved and inspired by what I witnessed, she had never once considered herself handicapped and simply found her own way of doing something other people said she could not do.
I had always thought about my disorders and my circumstances which affected my qualifications and resume as severe handicaps to the attaining some semblance of normalcy and stability. I need to follow Bella’s example and find people who are be able to look beyond the superficial, look beyond my past and recognize my skills and talents. I should not listen to nor get hung up by the multitudes who can’t – they can just fuck off, they don’t deserve me. People ask why I rescue rabbits, but really it was the bunnies that rescued me.