Ryan Tominaga

It is a tease to my little girl's heart that when I think about one of the most amazing nights I have ever been part of, I remember Ryan.

That very night, the cosmos playfully arranged him right next to me, but the four men on stage who make up one of the most important bands ever, their music that span several genres, generations and zeitgeists, the 96,002 people who were with us, filling every inch of space in the mighty Rose Bowl arena, reduced him to an insignificant detail. Only that very night.

Because when these events turned into a great story, almost like a knee-jerk response, my memory placed him at the center around which every other detail spun. We don't easily disremember a great night; but slowly, its repercussions fade and it becomes just the backdrop of the littler quirks that have personalized and made the experience ever more real and memorable to us.

My brother-in-law Pancho bought my ticket from his officemate, Tony, who is Ryan’s friend. We did not plan to meet before the concert. I searched for my seat among the ninety-six thousand and four, and when I thought I found it, I flashed a smile at the person seating next to it. Ryan.

“Welcome home,” he said. (Or was it “You’re home,” “Yep, you found your home”? What I’m only sure about is, “Home.”)

The night’s roll call, on its own, guaranteed an amazing experience, so I didn’t mind the prospect of being seated rows away from Pancho and my sister – alone. Besides, anonymity exhilarates me. But by twist and turn courtesy of the playful cosmos, I found myself in the company of three people I’ve never met before.

Tony, two seats away and really funny (I told him at the end of the night, “You are at par with Bono in entertainment value.”), introduced himself as “Latino, not black,” and his girlfriend Caroline, the "all-American American." By instinct, I burst into "Sweet Caroline, den den den," surprising even myself (and there were no glasses and glasses of beer involved), and eliciting a with eyes rolled-grin from Caroline like I wasn't the first who dared.

Tony did not say he was a huge U2 fan, but he sang along with Bono to almost every song in the band's repertoire, most of the time whole-heartedly (glasses and glasses of beer involved). Throughout the night, he would alternately poke fun at Caroline or at Ryan (“Come on, Ryan! It's U2!” when Ryan stayed glued to his seat and to his mobile.). But when the evening segued into the quintessential rock love song, With or Without You, he mellowed down and sang not along with Bono, but directly to his sweet Caroline.

The entire night, Ryan Tominaga -- him around which every other memory of the night spun -- was seated to my right. He is part Japanese, part Nicaraguan, and part Hawaiian; though at face value, you could never have guessed. There's a handsomeness to him that his baldness and olive skin dull, but he stands attractively. He reminded me of Powder, and at the same time, thought that he best epitomizes Max, the fictional Jew-in-hiding in Mark Zusak's The Book Thief. It may sound far-fetched (he's not Jewish), but I had just finished the book then.

A conversation was off to a good start. Ryan, as it happened, knew a lot of Filipinos at work and talked favorably of them. His grandmother, of whom he spoke as tenderly, is a Catholic. And he is openly romantic. He mentioned traveling to Japan, Hawaii and Nicaragua to know more about his roots.

I don't know about you, but I find crossing miles of strangeness to know more about oneself an intent that manifests one's profundity. Looking back, I think I was smitten with Ryan.

I wish we talked more, but Bono went onstage. The vibes that they radiated from The Claw (as they liked to call their humongous 360 Tour platform) were strong enough to spell a uniting cast over the whole stadium. I was too struck; my surroundings (by this I mean the 96000-amazing crowd) swirled into one pulsating entity. Song after song after song, I could not believe I was a part of it. It was just me, the crowd, and U2.

But in retrospect, I would see it was all natural ecstasy. Because the moments that I would remember with more precision and color were not only of me and U2. In fact, the band steps back and zooming in was the chorus of "Stuck in a Moment that You Can't Get Out Of," (the moment I would have stayed in for a long time) when Ryan urged me to sing along, karaoke style. Darn, I did not completely memorized that part, so instead, I burst into smiles to fill in the blanks. Before the concert, I told him it was my favorite U2 original.

When Bono burst into the monosyllabic chapter of With or Without You, the coming of the end of the concert dawning on him, Ryan sprang off his seat.

"Oh ooo ooo ooo... Oh ooo ooo ooo ooo... Oh ooo ooo ooo... Oh ooo... With or Without Yoooo..."

The whole stadium "Oh ooo-ed" along, but all I could hear now, some 8 months later, is Ryan at my right. Everything else swirls away into the background.

(P.S. Or I think about Ryan, and I remember that most amazing night.)