WHEN I DECIDED I WAS GOING TO BE A SINGER

They say that people create the best art out of their darkest moments. One morning, after an interesting sequence of events, I walked through the streets of Manhattan like a zombie. Words were floating through my head like paper planes in elementary school. I was talking to myself, singing to myself; I even bought myself a black dress. “Retail therapy” they call it. Then I jumped on the train where I wrote my second poem of the day. “Hopelessly Devoted,” I called it, like the song Sandy sang in Greece. How pathetic I was that morning. You know how babies cry and get emotional because they haven’t slept enough? Yeah, I think that happened to me.

So I’m writing this poem on the train, right? In between talking to my self and emitting random bursts of laughter, the person next to me switches seats. (This happens pretty often). After writing my poem and feeling really good about myself (in other words, depressed as shit), I walk into my aunt’s hair salon to find Roberto. Roberto: the beautiful shampoo guy from Venezuela.

When I asked if he was gay, he replied, “I’m not, but my partner is.” You get the point.
Roberto is also a part-time counselor, so he immediately sensed my despair.
“What’s wrong darling?” he asked, in his most exquisite accent. While complaining about my first world problems, “Hopelessly Devoted” came on the radio. I stopped talking and started singing. Every word came straight from the heart. It felt amazing.

That’s when my middle aged, off-the-boat Italian aunt said those life-changing words: “Wow Bianca, you have an amazing voice. Quit your internship and follow your dream. Become a singer.” Everyone in the hair salon agreed with her. I didn’t believe a word. I though she was bullshitting me…but my aunt wasn’t the type to beat around the bush. She would have straight up told me to “SHUT UP!” if I was bad.

I immediately turned to Roberto, desperate for an inch of positive reinforcement: “Am I good? Really?” He nodded his handsome head. “Fantastic,” he said.

I was skeptical, but they continued reassuring me of my singing talent for the rest of the day. So I sang every song that came on the radio like it was mine. I even talked about how it was “meant to be” and that I was “psychic” because I wrote a poem called “Hopelessly Devoted” earlier that day only to hear it later play on the radio
(I put that occurrence in my psychic portfolio).

It wasn’t long before I called my musically inclined friends and said, “Let’s start a band!”

“I write and sing, you play the instruments.” Everyone seemed interested, so we arranged our first band practice.

I always liked to sing. When I was a kid I used to sing in the shower. On the bus in middle school I used to sing Italian songs and make up raps with my friends. In high school I took opera lessons, but that wasn’t my thing. In college I was a member of the glee club (for a day). I recently acted as a “singer” in a music video. I thought this all happened for a reason. It was fate.

For the rest of the week I was singing all the time. I walked down the streets of Manhattan singing songs from Joan Jett and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s.
(Good thing I live in a city where people are used to crazy).

I also talked about my new idea to people at my internship.

One day, while my intern friends and I were returning to the office with a car driver, I began singing songs from the radio. Everyone was silent but the car driver. “I want your autograph,” he said. “You think I’m good? Really?” I said. “Yes, you will be famous, sign here.”

Now that I think about it, it was the stupid bill he wanted me to sign.

So…I walked back into a half empty office feeling really good and screamed out to one of my bosses, “the car driver wanted my autograph because he thinks I’m going to be a famous singer.”
“I hope you gave it to him,” was all she said.

“I’ll take a spread in the next issue,” I then told her. “But I choose the photographer and stylist,” and walked out.

I hope I don’t get fired for that.

Things were starting to look up. I was going to get my magazine spread, I signed my second autograph: little could stop me now. (The first was my elementary school teacher. I’ve been at this for a while)

The next day my friend and I even discussed my singing career over dinner.
“I will give you lessons,” she said. “Then I think you should learn the piano and the guitar.” This was becoming too much for me. Piano and guitar? All I wanted was to sing my poetry. I just wanted to be heard.

The next morning I woke up at my aunt’s house and began singing again. “How was that?” I asked. “Can you shut up,” she said.

No she didn’t. I thought she liked my singing. What was she implying here? “Please, don’t quit your day job,” she then blurted out.

It was all a lie, all of it. My dream of the week was being shot down.

Then she looked at me. “Bianca, you thought I was serious? I was being sarcastic. Oh mamma mia. If someone gives you dog shit wrapped nicely, you’ll buy it.”

Whatever, my poem is still awesome.