The Day I Started Singing

I don't sing. I have a terrible voice. In my childhood, this was driven into my head, by reality as well as the lack of confidence of other people. My mother always said she had a terrible voice, so she really didn't try to sing, which I know now had a lot to do with it.

I was good at everything in school and my parents told me I could do anything, even though they told me I couldn't pursue anything creative as more than a hobby. It was absolutely very certain that photography, writing, art, music were all "hobbies" and would not pay the bills.

So I tried out for chorus, because I liked to sing. I didn't really admit that to anyone-- it was something I only ever did in private, and really not much of that, because there really wasn't much privacy in my childhood. My father could hear every noise, every utterance, every tiny sound and creak of the house. There was no hiding.

Stop sniggling!

Separate!

Stop rustling around!

These were some of the phrases that I often heard yelled across the house to quiet down the two young girls living there.

We found ways around it. For instance, old landline phones could be picked up and spoken over a dial tone. My sister and I use this as a method of communication between our two rooms, which were right next to each other, but we dare not open doors or walk around for fear of being detected. We would whisper over the dial tone.

So in my young world of silence, I celebrated Disney princesses who sang loud songs about being happy, and almost always about being somewhere else. At this moment I'm not sure whether that was a function of Disney's themes, or that I just sought out themes that involved getting away from where I was.

As I said, I tried out for chorus. But I didn't make it. I remember the song was from American Tail, which is one of my favorite childhood cartoon movies to this day (and, incidentally, not Disney).

There were a lot of songs I would happily have sung from that movie, such as "Never Say Never" or "There are No Cats in America... and the streets are paved with cheese!"

But, of course the most popular was "Somewhere Out There," which had a lot of high notes. I couldn't hit any of the notes, and I wanted to sing soprano because that's who got to sing the melody. I didn't appreciate harmony at all at that point. Now, I understand I have a lower voice, and I also really enjoy harmony. I'm still not a singer-- for the record, I'm not saying that I have a great voice.

But one day I started to sing. I was over 40, that much I'm sure. In the past, whenever people played guitar or sang along to songs, I would feel very nervous that I might need to sing. I didn't want anyone to hear my voice.

It's not just the singing. I've also been a low talker. People say they can't hear me, that I'm speaking quietly, even when in my head it seems like I'm speaking just as loud as everyone else. But mostly, I know that they were right, and I couldn't bear to be heard. My childhood was very quiet.

And then I started playing the ukulele. I've played piano, clarinet, saxophone, and tried to learn guitar; I have a harmonica, a bamboo flute, I've even tried the didgeridoo, but nothing was as fun as I wanted it to be, until I met the ukulele.

Ukulele is fun. It's easy and approachable, with only four strings and a narrow fret, almost anyone can pick it up and play. Oddly enough, I got it from my father, who had bought my mother and himself ukuleles, presumably so they could play together. It was no surprise to me or anyone else that they never did. My mother wanted to learn, but has the self-confidence of... well, she just doesn't have any.

I am one of the main outlets for my parents' junk. Whenever they want to get rid of something, they frequently asked me first if I want it. I definitely did want this ukulele. It just looks like fun, and I've always wanted to play the guitar, and I thought I could handle it. I was right.

And it was so much fun. I didn't mind singing in my house with nobody else around. Now that I don't live in a condo or an apartment, I feel like I am safe and secure from the world. I started feeling like I actually could sing a little bit, maybe even in front of somebody?

There was one time though. My mother and my sister and I were in the car coming back from a concert, I think, and it was dark out and it was winter. We sang Christmas carols, and we sang them like we meant it. It is the one and only time that I can remember singing with them for real. And it was wonderful. I remember for sure that we sang silent night, but I also know that we sang several songs and that I didn't want it to end.

There was one other time, when my very best friend and I were driving and saying Johnny Cash and June Carter "It Ain't Me," and I did the harmony. That time, I sang like I meant it, and it was fun. But it took a lot for me to do it.

I always marveled at people who could sing in public, like the woman that you hear singing along to some song in the pharmacy, or the bartender that belts out a few lines of whatever is on the loud speakers. That was never something I felt I could do, because my voice was so horrible, so vile and wrong, that it would do nothing but make people laugh at me, or possibly even dislike me.

Once I was an adult, I sang a lot. I sang in the car all the time, and sometimes quietly in my own house, as well as on deserted beaches and so forth. I love to sing. I think the human voice is a miraculous instrument, that can speak and talk and wail and glorify life. And I let it ring out, whenever I was Alone.

I know a lot of songs, because I also love lyrics. Lyrics are part and parcel to the human voice, and to human suffering and true feeling.

But I still surprised myself the day I started to sing, in front of someone. My debut, besides on the phone with my best friend who will never judge me or be angry at me for anything, essentially to his own detriment, I sang in front of my parents.

In a way it's no surprise, because I'm hardwired to want their approval and to show them every interesting thing that I do as if it's a miracle. On the other hand, it's a big surprise, because they are the reason I was silent for the better part of my existence.

I sang "Leaving on a Jet Plane" by Peter Paul and Mary, one of my mother's favorite songs. I was a little self-conscious, but I wasn't frozen by embarrassment and I wasn't humiliated at the end of it. I felt like I had done a fine job in fact, and it was underlined when my father said something like "You have a nice little voice actually." Although I do seek his approval, this time it didn't really mean anything to me. I already felt just fine singing a little bit, it's just uncomfortable to do anything near my parents.

Since then, I have actually felt comfortable singing a little bit in public. Obviously I don't mean I go to the town square and start singing and opera, but if there's something to be sung along to, I don't hide and pretend.

Now I can sing hymns out loud in church, on the rare occasion that I go to one, not having been raised religious, it's usually just for a funeral or a wedding.

I can sing in front of people that I know, and even play a little ukulele for them. I suppose that doesn't mean just anyone, as I do know some people who are friends of mine who judge people based on whether or not they're really good at something. Which I am not. But I'm finally more comfortable with being as I am, instead of being quiet or perfect.

And now I can sing.

Singing. Music. Beautiful expressions of life.