on performing

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I’m writing this on the N train, currently performing the part of restaurant server. All black attire—trading my usual yellow or silver shoes for black New Balances. All black. Dim it.

“All color, bring up the stage lights,” I remember my voice teacher, Diane, instructing the crew. Nervously excited, we stood ready to run our dress rehearsal. This was my first time performing outside musical theatre—something I grew up doing as a kind of two-for-one activity for my parents, corralling my brother and me into the same space. I liked the singing, the stories. That’s what eventually led me to songwriting.

I was going to perform two songs. One was “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” and I practiced my strut endlessly. The second was a song I wrote about my friend’s parents divorcing. I was thirteen. All I knew was that my friend was sad, and her dad didn’t live in the house anymore.

I wore a dress with flowers, my hair straightened. I was excited. I strutted my way through the musical theater number, and then moved to the piano for my song, where I immediately felt more at home. I played, I sang, and afterward, a woman approached me with tears in her eyes.

She asked me why I wrote the song, and I told her it was about my friend’s parents, but I didn’t know why I wrote it. She told me she was going through a divorce herself, and thanked me for writing it. It helped her, she said.

I didn’t understand how a song that wasn’t about her could resonate so deeply. But years later, listening to Florence, I realized: once we perform a song, it’s no longer ours. We write from our truths and leave just enough room for the listener to sketch themselves in.

Seven years ago, I started calling myself an artist through this realization. My performances began to focus on creating that space for others. My deepest hope became starting a story and then passing the pen to you.

The most colorful I’ve felt has come from performing. The color of Protagonist is orange—just like the shirt of the man sitting in front of me, blending into the orange train seats. Clementine orange is all I see.

After two years perfecting the Protagonist pen, I’m ready to pass it to you.

An unreleased album, with a band, in a bakery.

Clementine Bakery

Saturday

7:30pm

Tickets here