I knew what bad singing was before I could recite my multiplication tables up to twelve times. I could conduct a choir long before I knew enough to fill the pages of an integrated science notebook. Music was in my blood, in my words, and my actions. And with the music, came the demons.
First, I would like to say that a love for music is never negative, regardless of what anyone might feel after reading this. Music is in the air as wind, in birds as their song, in the ocean as the waves, in the tall grass as they bend and sway, and in the ground as the thud, thud of heavy feet. Music came as a salvation to black people unrepentant and miserable, music was the glimpse of an ankle in dance and the secret smiles of smitten beaus, music was the hallmark of sophisticate, and music was the tune with which the devil played my life. And he did it with such abandon.
My mom understood a child singing her heart out, she did not understand the writhing against the wall and scratching the paint off with fingernails. At first, it was amusing, then it became a nuisance, worrisome, and then it was a mighty terror. The songs would swim before my eyes, the characters bedazzling neons on a black surface. They’d scream and jump and shout, sometimes stretching themselves till they fell apart and when I tried to sing along with them, they’d turn on me, grabbing my vocal cords and causing me to have a sore throat for days. I went through packs of Baba Blue in days, sometimes.
I could not say anything, because the words would line up in my mouth and turn into saliva dripping down the sides of my mouth whenever I tried to spit them out. They’d cackle at my failure and my mother would whip me in anger. And my mother knows how to whip children, she has perfected the act. I would cry and cry and cry until my eyes were red and swollen and my head was hurting. Then the little songs would come back, the ones that uncle T listened to when he was feeling heartbroken, and they would sing to me, waiting until I joined in before they left me, alone.
My father never saw these things, the demons respected him and so they left me alone on the weekends when he was home. It was the only time that I could enjoy music and not see dancing figures circling my head. My mom would watch in disbelief, where was the child that had nearly broken the stereo because she kept screaming “stop!” at it? Or the one that sneaked out her father’s vinyl recordings to burn because she said “they keep dancing and dancing and dancing.” My mother did not tell my father these things because she believed that our bond was forged in music and if she broke that trust, we may as well have nothing to do with each other. She did tell him to buy more Don Moen and Ron Kenoly CDs though.
Then, the demons came on the streets, amplifying sound from three streets over so I could dance, unmindful of where I was or who was watching. And I danced, so much so that I could have been a dancer if I wanted if I would be allowed to, but I knew there was no chance for it. Mom wanted medical doctors as children. But I danced on the streets. I hummed PSquare’s Roll it to myself and did all the moves in the music video while going on an errand, and my audience of two clapped with vigor. I ran, slightly embarrassed, majorly elated. A woman told my mother of the child that dances when there is no music, on the streets, and my mother called me, rubbed her hands down my face and head, and asked if I wanted people to call me mad. What did I care, I thought, the demons already had me firmly in their grasp. But I shook my head and promised not to dance anymore. And I didn’t.
Soon, the demons knew that they could no longer harness my voice for their screamings and my body for their writhings and they began to leave, taking with them my interest. I didn’t care, I had found fulfillment in my mother’s church. And I sang the roof off every Sunday. Dancing was for the birthday parties I seldom attended and so, they had no way of coming back.
Until one sneaked in and saw a book in my hand.
The End.
I'm pretty sure you can guess what happens next.
This story is partly true, partly fictious, and if you know me well, you'd know which is which. I do love to imagine things.
And I still love music. I recently started to explore rock. I'm beginning with Imagine Dragons, it is a good choice, no?
And this wonderful picture of Marshmello belongs to Sebastian Stan on Pexels.
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