Little Mr. Songbird

It's really embarrassing, but when I was a kid, I honestly believed I was a good singer. And I don't just mean I-can-carry-a-tune-kind-of-good either, but Bagong kampeon good, which probably says a lot about the degree of my childhood delusions.

Such was my confidence in my singing ability, in fact, that one time, when I was around eight years old, I joined a singing contest in our baranggay. It wasn't really a big contest, certainly not as big as those we usually had during town fiestas. There was just a small, makeshift stage -- a table covered with a red cloth -- and a lone guitarist to accompany the contestants. No crinkly Japanese-paper flowers thumbtacked to the wall, no letters cut out of a cartolina and sprinkled with glitters. One of the three judges was my aunt; another was the local hilot.

It was our neighbor Tess who nudged me in the rib and told me "Uy, sali ka. Mananalo ka dyan." We were standing among the crowd that had gathered around the stage that time, waiting for the contest to start. "Ayoko nga," I said, but without conviction, for deep inside I agreed with her: I could win this thing.

Needless to say, after a few more pokes, I allowed myself to be persuaded, and before I knew it I was up on the stage, in my shorts and t-shirt, with a microphone being thrust into my hands. This was in the early eighties and Menudo was the big thing in music, so naturally I sang one of their hits: If You're Not Here.

I don't have a good memory, but strangely enough I still remember that moment with the vividness of a Van Gogh painting, the sky shining blueblack, the lamppost spilling yellow light on the asphalt, my wounded, eight-year-old voice cutting through the night with all the longing and sadness I could muster.

Then suddenly -- I don't know why -- I realized that something wasn't right. My singing wasn't right. I was too young and too stupid then to know anything about pitch or slipped notes, but I understood, maybe from the faces of the people in the audience, that this wasn't the Bagong Kampeon moment I'd dreamed about many times. Quite the opposite. This was like the moment I pretended I'd done my homework and my teacher, Mrs. Carigma, whacked my butt with a ruler in front of the class.

When it was over, I slipped surreptitiously to our house and locked myself up in my room. After a while, my sister knocked and told me, in an attempt to make me feel better, that I'd won but the prize was awarded to someone else because it wouldn't look right for me to win with my aunt as one of the judges. Instead of being happy, I felt even worse because that meant someone had told her I'd made a total fool of myself.

I didn't go out of the house for several days after that. When I did, it was as though the contest never happened. Well, one kid teased me by mimicking the way I sang If You're Not Here. I think I hurled an empty Alaska can at him.

I'm happy though that that delusion ended early rather than late; otherwise I might have ended up one of those William Hungs and Reynaldo Lapuzes who brazenly display their utter lack of talent on the world stage. I admit I still sing from time to time, in the shower or in the car, or in front of a videoke machine, when I've downed enough glasses of gin guyabano to have an excuse afterwards. My friends, some of whom are terrific singers (like my buddy, Darwin, whose picture appears below), don't seem to mind. If they do, I applaud them for being such wonderful actors.

And thankfully I've discovered where my true gifts lie. I'm not going to tell you what they are lest I come across as a windbag, but one thing's for sure, they don't require exercising one's vocal chords.