Boys with Guitars: Searching for a Man Who Sings

By Frances Kai-Hwa Wang, IMDiversity.com Asian American Village Acting Editor

Every Sunday afternoon, I walk out of my study to thunderous screeching and howling. Two of my daughters have ukulele lessons with a beautiful hapa boy (is there any other kind?) in his twenties, and they always end the class with a rousing sing-a-long of their favorite songs. The beautiful hapa boy leads the way while ten-year-old Hao Hao bangs on her ukulele, Niu Niu screeches at the top of her little six-year-old lungs, and two-year-old Little Brother break dances in the living room. “You are my Sunshine,” “Blue Moon,” “Surfin’ USA.” They think the louder they sing and play, the better it sounds. They do not worry too much about the notes. It is at once painful to the ears and gratifying to the heart. I simply must sit down and join them.

As much as I—A Good Asian American Parent—push my kids into early piano lessons, insist on band and orchestra, and emphasize the connection between math and music (and genius), I really prefer hearing them sing enthusiastically and off-key like this. If I had to choose, I would much rather they be able to sit down and sing all night with a good group of friends on the banks of a river somewhere than be first chair of the school orchestra. (But don’t tell anyone!)

All my closest friendships and fondest memories developed there (not to mention my most memorable crushes on boys with guitars), singing with groups of friends (in four-part harmony, of course) on the banks of the Bagmati River in Nepal, in the woods of Yosemite, on the streets of the Rose Parade, in the BART (subway) stations of San Francisco. In every choir I ever sang, I always had a crush on whatever tenor sat right behind my left ear—I could not help myself, something about being serenaded without stopping to think about what you look like, what he looks like, what you think he thinks you look like, and all that retroflective craziness that develops when you grow up as a minority. Like my father who remembers past events by the food that was served, I remember past events by the songs that were sung.

Even my childhood memories are full of choir competitions, being forced to go to church (only) on days my dad was singing in the choir, all the doting aunties and uncles in the Chinese School Parents’ Choir. I loved seeing my dad transform from Mild-Mannered- Pocket-Protector-Clad-Electrical-Engineer into The-Life-of-the-Party, with everyone clamoring for him to sing. He didn’t take off his glasses, but he might as well have, and put on his Superman’s cape, the transformation was so complete.

When I grew up, I was surprised to discover that there are people who do not sing, heartbroken when I realized too late that I had married one. I thought my days and nights of singing were over. Then my first child, Mango, was born, and there was my dad, standing over her crib, singing scales at her so that she would have perfect pitch.

These days, I spend a lot more time driving in my car than I do sitting around a campfire, but, thanks to my trusty iPod, I get to sing with the best—Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra—plus all the Chinese children’s songs you can take. With the kids held captive in their seatbelts, I teach them what I learned long ago from The-Man-Who-Knows-All-The-Words-To-All-The-Songs-In-All-The-Different-Languages—in order to do it properly, you have to begin at the beginning—verses in the right order, bridge, and chorus—and be able to sing it without the CD and without words on paper (and certainly without a karaoke machine).

The children have memorized a huge swath of songs in both English and Chinese, including “Shoo Shoo Baby” (which they think is a baby song), “I Love New York in June” (which they sang for friends moving to New York), “When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano” (which they sang for a friend of my mom in San Juan Capistrano), “The Way You Wear Your Hat” (which they think is about a hat), “You Say Potato, I Say Potahtoe” (which they think is about potatoes), a few Cal fight songs, and more. So while the preschool teacher struggles to teach the kids “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” two-year-old Little Brother can sing Elvis’ “Hunk o Burnin’ Love,” verse, bridge, and chorus. (He’s even got the Elvis lip twitch down.) When Mango stood up to sing a song in Chinese School Preschool many years ago, she surprised the teacher with an old (and long) Chinese folksong about a house in the country with wildflowers red as fire growing on the mountain and white swans with their heads in the air singing on the winding river—not your normal kids’ song.

Nostalgic for my college days around the campfire, I recently took the kids to a sing-a-long at Leslie Science Center with a beautiful young multiracial singer-songwriter we know, Joe Reilly, as the kids all love him and know his songs. Since I do not have any friends who sing anymore, I was happy to pay the $25 to give my kids the experience of singing with a beautiful dark-haired boy and his guitar. Two-year-old Little Brother had a fabulous time, vigorously singing and dancing and doing all the arm motions. Six-year-old Niu Niu was playing cool, but I could see her just barely moving her lips. However, I was dismayed that the two older ones, ages 10 and 11, were just sitting under the table reading manga the whole time. Have I waited too long? Are they too old to discover the joy of singing already? What was I thinking that I could buy this sort of experience and artificially create it among strangers? We bought Joe’s latest CD, though, and as soon as we got home, all the girls started fighting over it. Figures.

I once heard someone say that four was the perfect number of children to have because then you could have your own string quartet—except that I forgot to teach mine any string instruments. We’ll have to settle for four-part harmony. At the end of the day, when I am beat down by the homework wars and Little Brother and Niu Niu cannot fall asleep, we all crawl into bed together, and with Little Brother’s sweaty head in the crook of my arm, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark-stars pasted on my ceiling, we sing all our Chinese school songs and all our Ella Fitzgerald songs one after the other until I am the only one left singing. I am amazed at how many songs Little Brother can sing already—at last I have found A-Man-Who-Sings. Life cannot get any better than this.