I’ve never really felt ashamed to sing. My mom sang to me as a kid, and I remember quietly humming along to her rendition of "She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” nightly. Alongside her soothing voice, I lullabied myself to sleep. I have the same habit as my mom, singing mindlessly while doing various tasks. Even after my siblings and I have all grown up and passed the nursery rhyme phase, it’s never a surprise to hear my mom singing while she’s washing dishes, grading papers, driving, cleaning, or walking the dogs. Loud and proud or through a gentle hum, I’ve never known my mother to refrain from expressing her musicality.
To be clear, my family is unexceptionally musical. We’re all acutely aware that the musical gene must have skipped out on us. Sure, we played instruments in the middle school band, and we sing along to our favorite songs, but we were never gifted with the voices of angels. In fact, I sometimes wonder if the angels, after hearing me rap the Hamilton soundtrack out of time and off key for the third time in a day, wish they’d never gifted us voices at all. But, such is life in my family’s household. My brothers can be heard humming as they walk upstairs, and tapping beats on the kitchen counter during breakfast. My sister belts alternative folk music at the top of her lungs around the house, and I sing in the car with both windows down daily. Even my dad, though he jokes that he can’t remember lyrics to save his life, exudes a sense of accomplishment when he perfectly times his mimic of a Blues Traveler harmonica solo.
A song is almost always stuck in my head, sometimes popping up during the middle of an exam or while walking between classes. It’s an integral part of who I am. So why would I suppress it?
I embrace my objectively bad voice. Even during a short-lived stint in the children’s choir of my church, my seven-year-old self knew I wasn’t getting a solo any time soon. But I’ve rarely ever minded. Ever since I could plug in my boom box, play “Breakaway” by Kelly Clarkson on CD, and sing along, music has set up shop in my brain and refused to close down. I was designated singer during sibling jam sessions on Rock Band, the family master at croaking out a low-voiced “Dirty Little Secret” backed up by my brothers on drums and guitar. A song is almost always stuck in my head, sometimes popping up during the middle of an exam or while walking between classes. It’s an integral part of who I am. So why would I suppress it?
Naturally, I’m not immune to the pressures of conformity. I went through a shamefully long period of middle school with side bangs, so that should say enough about my bouts with lackluster individuality. I remember watching the yearly school talent show from the back rows of the auditorium, in awe of my classmates on stage who danced and sang as if nobody was watching, even when everybody was. I admired friends who tried new sports, as, at only age 12, I thought it was too late to teach an old dog like me any new tricks. Of course, at almost 20 years old, I look back on that logic and laugh—but the pressures to have a talent, to be the best at what you do, existed then and still exist now.
Lots of people try new things. But I can count on one hand the number of new skills I’ve tried and stuck with. Usually, because I don’t progress to an unattainable standard quickly enough, new things become old things become things of the past. The cycle continues. With nearly two decades of dropped hobbies under my belt, though, I’ve begun to care less and less about how good I am at something. Rather, I find it more reasonable to assess it from a standpoint of enjoyment over execution.
I won’t ever be Taylor Swift. If I stood up and sang at a cafe in Nashville I might even be asked to leave. I’m no Misty Copeland, whose ballet mesmerizes even the uncoordinated many. And try as I might, even Bob Ross’s gentle voice can’t make my shaky hands translate painted lines into frosty arctic landscapes. My talents might not whisk me away to the Grammys, but who’s to say I can’t sing along from the couch?
And to you, I say wholeheartedly: Dance if your feet want to move! Sing if your brain can’t let go of those lyrics! Write poetry if the pen calls your name!
So today, as I hum “Comeback Kid” by Brett Dennen to the displeasure of my very tolerant roommates, I propose a toast. Here’s to the ones who stare at a piano longingly because they only know “Old McDonald”! To those whose Adele runs flutter off into a bashful laugh when someone enters the room! To the people who tap their feet to the rhythm of music in the shower! You are musicians, singers, dancers. You are the batteries that power a world running low on unabashed joy. And to you, I say wholeheartedly: Dance if your feet want to move! Sing if your brain can’t let go of those lyrics! Write poetry if the pen calls your name!
I invite every novice and newbie to indulge in this family affair. If gibberish songs made up on the spot by my mom aren’t enticing enough, I raise you the whistled tunes of my father and wonky poems of mine. There’s room at the kitchen table for all of your fingertip rhythms, your stick-figure drawings and tap dance routines. Pass the salt, please, and, if you will, sing me a tune.
It’s time to grant yourself the privilege of indulging in your interests, regardless of perceived skill. Let yourself be yourself, without comparison to the practiced and primed. In the words of Teddy Roosevelt often echoed by my ever-supportive father, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” Target aisles were surely made for spinning in clumsy pirouettes, and notebook margins were designed with daydreaming doodles in mind. It’s time to take back the delight of dabbling—to sing loudly in the shower with no holds barred.
