Generación / generation

By: Elena Petrovich

I recently found a note my co-worker and mentor wrote to me at my first full-time job out of college. It reads:

The sun doesn’t ask permission to shine — and neither do you. So shine baby, shine!  

This unexpected encouragement moved my 22-year-old heart and mind so much so that I kept it for years, along with all my other affecting paper keep-sakes — greeting cards from friends I haven’t texted in ages, highly-graded essays on topics I don’t think about anymore, sheet music of songs I no longer sing — only to find it just in time for delayed quarter-life-crisis tattoo inspiration. 

And I wonder: The sun doesn’t ask permission to shine…but should it?

This sort of pedantry was surely not the original intent of the note, which was written during my time working at a toxic nonprofit defined by an executive director who smiled when she was angry (which was often), by weaponized racial office politics, and its ultimate goal of programming for Chicago’s “inner-city-youth” that we suspected was doing more harm than good. We were both struggling and we both quit within a year. I think the note — left on my desk during my last week — was meant to remind me of my inherent worth, that this shitshow of an organization and my place in it didn’t define me. 

I don’t think she meant it to inspire behavior that nearly got me kicked out of Manhattan’s most sacred sing-along piano bar, Marie’s Crisis — a West Village institution since 1929 — seven years later. But last week, that’s what happened. 

I now live in New York but often fret that I don’t live enough like a New Yorker. If I can’t say I spent my weekend going to an underground film screening, a pop-up zine fair, or a seminar on the late-capitalist implications of look-alike contests, then what the hell am I doing? So after months of being cooped up during NYC’s coldest and snowiest winter in a decade, you can imagine my delight when my friend texted me with very-cool New York City plans.

So off I went with my trendy long skirt (a recession indicator), a 9% beer in my coat pocket (a cry for help), and the re-discovered wisdom that just like the sun, I do not need to ask permission to shine. 

The architect of these plans was my friend Aaron, who for the better part of a year has been begging us to go to the legendary sing-along showtunes bar. The lore had it that this is where Aaron would find himself at the end of most nights, often by himself. When I first heard of this, I was stunned. A room full of people belting Sondheim at full volume is not most people’s idea of a casual nightcap, let alone a young corporate transplant’s late-night comfort spot.

And yet, even before stepping inside, we witnessed this folklore turn to material reality as the bouncer emphatically embraced him, celebrating his return, and welcoming the rest of the group like his noble disciples. We stood, mouths agape, as we watched a man who had completed this pilgrimage so many times he was now greeted by the high priests as one of their own. 

Despite our place in line, the bouncer, Brooke, waved the full group inside. A decision, I’m sure, she came to regret. 

And there, in the small, sticky-floored piano bar surrounded by musical theater aficionados singing their hearts out to Broadway deepcuts, Aaron led us through his natural environment. Snaking our way around the tightly packed devotees, he supplied the group with a round of stiff vodka sodas, poured with the generosity he had promised.

Then he settled in. 

Expecting him to jump right into the chorus with the rest of the bar, there he was instead — asking the stranger next to him what the song was, pulling up the lyrics on his phone, and loudly attempting to sing along anyway. He had not earned the right to sing these songs — yet there he was, singing away, shining oh so bright. 

The drinks were indeed generously poured. Myself and two of my slightly culture-shocked friends (they are not former theater kids like myself) took a hiatus from the crowd to partake in a most-celebrated ritual of any good night out: a trip to the bathroom. In line — feeling like the 9% pre-game beer was a good call — I found myself in a bit of a flow state, hamming it up with the girls and anyone who would listen. But it was really my time to shine when my friend mentioned my closeted father, teeing me up to bring the house down.

The story that followed involved the night my mother, two glasses of wine past her limit, outed my father — a man who had spent decades referring to Johnny Depp as his “man crush” — to my brother, who did not take it as calmly as I did, and who ended the evening by stepping out of our Uber onto the quiet streets of Astoria, yelling at the driver, “If you want to get your dick sucked, call my dad, because he’s gay!”

My mom did not ask permission to shine that night, but she was absolutely blinding.

After leaving the bathroom like the night’s headliner taking a bow, we wove our way back to Aaron, who was still singing along to songs he absolutely did not know. And neither did most of the group, so we found a corner and began bantering over the loud music like we would at any other bar. 

But this was not any other bar. 

It started with a look. The man to my right, my friend told me, had just scoffed in my general direction. Before I confirmed it with my eyes, I already knew who it had to be. It was the old man covered in jewels — shiny earrings dangling from his large lobes, bracelets stacked like a bourgeois bohemian, and more necklaces than were worth counting — paired with a muscle tank and a top hat. The kind of man who looked like he lived there. The kind of gay man I would normally overly-admire, in a way that probably says something about me. 

But I was still feeling the momentum of the bathroom line and the sting of the vodka, and was in no mood to let things go, so I was at once emotionally involved. I watched his rising annoyance with sick satisfaction as we continued yapping away. 

Then came the first condemnation. 

“Shhhhhh no talking, we have to hear the music,” the bejeweled man said. He would go on to say this line two more times.

At first we would regretfully comply. We couldn’t help but glow despite the read of the room. 

By the third time he told us to quiet, I responded. 

“I don’t see a sign anywhere that says you can’t talk.” The sun doesn’t read signs either, after all.

Our denouncer gracefully ignored me, and at that moment I caught the eyes of Brooke the Bouncer, standing by the door. She had witnessed the whole thing. 

A deep shame washed over me. 

Before we could disgrace ourselves further, we saw ourselves out, tail between our legs. As we regrouped on the sidewalk, I anticipated facing a defeated and dishonored Aaron. But defying expectations yet again, he was as charmed as ever — reveling in the opportunity to have shown his friends his favorite spot.  

“Wasn’t that awesome?!” I marveled at his consistency. The shame was entirely mine. Aaron was already planning his next visit.

The cold air hit different on the way out. Maybe I should text those friends, or reread those essays on topics I swore I’d never stop thinking about, or sing those songs that have sat in silence long enough.

Christina’s note has been sitting in a drawer for seven years. I think I’ve been waiting for permission to act on it.

Shine baby, shine!