Unfiltered
By: Christine Nguyen, Student Fvhs
Tags: Truth, Acceptance, The Great Gatsby, Education

Unfiltered

I remember beginning high school with the intentions of staying low profile and doing art all four years. With a pre-schedule of all my six classes and nervous excitement fueling my freshman self, I walked to the gates of Fountain Valley High School, believing the next four years would either be the best or worst years of my life; because apparently, those are the only two outcomes of one’s high school experience. I remember walking under the humid weather in desperation to end registration early and officialize what I want for my freshman year. However, plans change. Sometimes, life changes what we want into something that we are afraid to venture into. That was the case when I met two choir singers. They explained what program they were in and the trip they took to Italy. Immediately, I was drawn into their world of competition and family. Something I’ve been looking for in the art community. Being in choir since I was a child, I considered joining. With a phone call hours later, I was prepared to enter choir as a Trouvere or beginning girls. During my first year of serenading in front of hundreds, I found my community then. I found my sense of belonging.

Finally.

As the year went by, I created a lot of beautiful memories of my first competition in San Diego; the friends I still talk to today, and the skills I’ve learned through the vocal music program. But now it was time to move onto the more advanced choirs such as Concert Choir or Troubadours. I felt confident in myself that my name will be in the roster because my classmates told me I had the voice to be part of such a prestigious program. I guess I let that get through my head as I sang “Alma de Core”. A difficult Italian song that made me breathless with every vibrato and every note I sang. Singing that song during my audition, I thought I deserved the spot because of my hard work, my supposed talent, and my positive attitude. For the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that I was enough.

I already knew I messed up my song when I was seconds late, coughing up the notes, and forgetting tonal memory or the ability to reiterate notes almost perfectly played on the piano, but through the voice. I remember he said it would just be him and me. As I surveyed the room, it was false. Troubadours were judging me with their wise, knowing eyes, seeing my failures. After the list came out, all my friends that I pushed to sing in class, to participate in class made it in. Me? I was put into the intermediate choir or the rejects’ choir (It was not my will to consider this the failure’s choir. It is what it is).

How could this be?

Why?

Am I not good enough?

Photo 2019 by geralt

Those questions haunted me for years in my consciousness and in my dreams. They haunted me when I cried alone and silently at night, and now, they came back. I felt small again. I felt like all the achievements I made to better myself mentally and physically came crashing down all because I didn’t make the choir. I was then livid at myself, at him, at the program, and everything that had anything to do with singing. Still, I signed up for the following year hoping if he sees my dedication and will, he will put me in the choir I thought I deserved.

Long story short, I got rejected again….

I thought I had it all down. I spend almost two grand on tours and vocal lessons. I prayed and pushed people to do solos. I practiced and tried so hard to stand out. I really did. But that wasn’t the right formula. Nobody cares that you lied to your parents about how much the tour was. Nobody cares that you hear mocking words saying, “Rejects, Rejects, Rejects!” before every single concert. Nobody cares that you were angry and confused, wondering what you did wrong in your auditions. Again, I felt small and irrelevant. I was easily a disposable person, he probably doesn’t even know my name.

My parents always wondered why I continue in this program. I fake a smile and say, “It’s because I love it. I love to sing.”

Do I?

Did I?

Why did I put my worth on this?

These new questions sprung from the deepest and darkest parts of my mind. A part where I refused to acknowledge. But the biggest question that occasionally makes its presence is:

Why did I care?

I cared because I had something to prove. I had to prove that I was able. I was able to sing. I was able to at least do this one stupid thing to prove to myself… to myself! That I was enough. I wanted to scream and cry to God above me. I wanted to hit something. But most importantly, I wanted validation. I put my everything into something so minuscule. Something not worth the pain and anguish.

All those snide remarks, those arrogant stares, and all those pitiful looks. The music of my sad cabernet goes like this:

Reject

Failure

Reject

My thoughts bombarded me of questions about my worth as a person and as a singer. Was I more than someone in a choir?

Photo Oct. 9 by Life of Pix

I think I depended too much on hoping to identify myself as a singer that I really don’t know who I am without it, and that hurts me a lot. I’m afraid that I’m going back to who I was in the past. I was someone who only identified herself as a girl with Major Depression. I took pride in that because that was all I knew about myself. And now, seeing that I desperately try to find another identification, all I ever accomplished was belittling myself, again, to the extent where it’s hard to go through the day most of the time.

So how does this relate to what I learned here?

When I read “The Great Gatsby”, I noticed similar patterns between Gatsby and me. Together, we came from the abyss and darkness of our pasts that haunt us in our everyday lives. Because of that abyss, we force ourselves to create a clean and spotless slate. We didn’t accept who we were in the past and we both put on a front to separate the past from the future. What hit the most with Gatsby’s character is his willingness to please the one person, or the only person he cares about. That person was Daisy. Gatsby identified as someone who lived a luxurious life. He was never a boy who came from a working-class family. He was never James Gatz. Jay Gatsby did everything to not only impress his love interest, but he also tried to erase that he came from a background of poor farmers. All he ever got back was someone who never really cared about him, or at least not care enough about him.

During the duration of reading this book, I was angry and sadden for Gatsby. I saw a piece of myself that I wanted to go. That piece was something I was too ashamed to read in a book. It felt like I was reading a reflection of myself, and I hated it so much. Hate is a strong word, but to me, it feels appropriate in this context of both Gatsby and I’s inner turmoil. But honestly:

Who are we?

Was this worth it? Was it worth the tears, the emotions, and our beings?

Are we happy?

What I’m trying to write here in this semester reflection is that I found myself gambling with a decision to run away from the past. Instead, I ran into it again. It took me a long time to admit that I had a problem with identifying myself as Christine the Choir Singer. It took me a long time to admit that I felt like trash every day I woke up. It is now even more difficult to write this because I know choir, in the many eyes, is a small aspect that shouldn’t hurt me. I beg to differ. I put my soul and my physical/mental health into it. I know myself. When I see something I might be interested in, I pour my heart and mind into it. It’s almost like giving my soul away to the Devil himself. It certainly feels that way. Sometimes, and I’m afraid to admit this too, that I wasted my time there. For Gatsby, in my opinion, he wasted his time on Daisy.

Photo 2015 by 1006777

I remember my English teacher, Mr. Ziebarth, said to find my Gatsby. I don’t have to, because I already did, because Jay Gatsby is me and it sucks. I’m sorry for my lack of appropriate words or formalities, but being in our place is a terrible position. When you wish for something for years, when you worked so hard to accomplish the only real goal you had, when you devout everything you are because you trust that it’ll be a better path, but isn’t; it tears you apart. I don’t want to be Gatsby and I never want to find Gatsby. I don’t want to wait for something or someone to care about me after, in the case of Gatsby, created the sun (his house) from his accomplishments, or in my own case, lack of said accomplishments.

But then what? What else is there to fill this emptiness? Metaphorically speaking, is there another puzzle piece, the right puzzle piece, out there waiting for me to claim it?

All I know is this:

I am NOT a Troubadour.

I am NOT a Concert Choir singer.

I am NOT happy.

I am NOT peaceful.

I am NOT lucky.

I am NOT chosen.

In addition to that:

I AM bitter.

I AM a three-time reject.

I AM broken.

I AM lost.

I AM angry.

I AM Jay Gatsby.

However:

I am NOT a loser.

I am NOT a bad person.

I am NOT only my depression and anxiety.

I am NOT only a singer.

I am NOT a bad daughter.

I am NOT a bad sister.

I am NOT solely my past.

And:

I AM a great, no actually, an amazing chef.

I AM a friend to everyone.

I AM a caring scholar.

I AM an artist.

I AM ambitious.

I AM a comedian.

I wasn’t born yesterday. I know ten years from now, I’ll look back and laugh because there is always a light, no matter how small it may look, at the end of the tunnel. If you believe in God, there is a plan made for you. If you don’t believe in God, then the only direction from rock bottom is up. You don’t have to limit yourself in a box. Step out of it sometimes and smell the fresh air. The sky is bluer outside than inside that box you put yourself into.