I Can Do Anything I Want

Summary

The author reflects on the personal struggle of not being able to sing despite a deep love for music and the ability to engage in various other activities.

Abstract

The author expresses frustration with the motivational cliché that one can do anything they set their mind to, particularly in the context of singing. Despite being proficient in many skills such as dancing, cooking, and writing, the author laments their inability to sing, a talent they admire and wish they possessed. They recount a humiliating experience where a colleague commented on their poor singing. Nevertheless, the author finds joy and comfort in music, considering it an integral part of their life's soundtrack. Despite the lack of talent in singing, the author continues to sing for personal happiness, even if it's done poorly.

Opinions

The author believes that the ability to sing is not universal, contradicting the stereotype that all Black people can sing.
They acknowledge that while they can perform various activities well, singing is not one of them.
The author humor

But I Can’t Do That (30-Day Writing Challenge #18)

They lied! They sure did! All those people who wrote the motivational posters. All those people who wrote all those inspirational books. My parents. Lies, lies, lies!

They told me I could do anything I set my mind to. Ha!

Granted, I can do a lot of things, and I do them well. I can dance, cook, and learn just about anything as long as it can be taught in a book or a classroom. I can plant a garden and make jams, jellies, and preserves. I can swim and drive.

I can argue with the best of them and better still. I can play the guitar a little bit (I’m still learning). I can act. Heck, people say I can even write.

But the one thing I’d love to be able to do more than anything is the one thing I can’t do. I can’t sing.

I can screech. I can yell. I can caterwaul. And I can wail. But I couldn’t carry a tune if you actually handed me the basket to put it in. It’s pathetic.

I come from a long, long line of horrible singers on my father’s side.

Me and my dad (Photo courtesy of the author)

We are living proof that the well-circulated stereotype that Black folk can sing is completely and utterly false. Some Black people can sing. Just like some White, Asian, Indigenous, whatever people can. Some people can sing. I am not one of them.

I’m not exaggerating. One day, when I was still practicing law, I had some music quietly playing on my computer in my office. I was singing along without even thinking about it.

One of the senior partners, a jolly, talkative fellow named Greg, with a perplexing gum habit, poked his head in and said, “I never knew a sound so ugly could come out of someone so pretty.”

It’s bad, folks, real bad. Funny thing, when I’m singing, I think I sound good.

And it’s a shame too because I love music! I love to sing. Music has always been such a huge part of my life. It’s been the soundtrack playing at all the big moments — the heartbreaks, the triumphs, the graduations, the weddings. Even my divorce has a song associated with it. If you give me a song from the 80s, I can tell you exactly, and I do mean exactly, the year, what grade I was in, and give you a brief description of my life at the time.

I have songs that are inexorably linked to certain times and certain people in my life. For example, Right Here Waiting (Richard Marx) will always mean my first year of university and a boy we’ll call “D”. And Forever and Ever Amen (Randy Travis) will always bring my father back to me.

Hearing those songs and singing those songs bring me a sense of comfort as well as a sense of joy. In a strange way, as I belt it out badly, I’m transported for about 3 minutes to a time and place that seemed a little gentler, a little simpler.

It’s also a great stress reliever. And it’s just so fun to belt out your favourite tunes.

Don’t get me wrong, bad as I am I still do it. I can be heard belting it out all around town in my big old white van I named Bernice. She’s basically an 80s disco on wheels. I sing when I’m home. The dog hears it and jumps all over me. I have that one fan, at least.

Maybe they didn’t lie after all. I mean, I can sing. I do it almost every day. I just do it badly. But they never said I had to be good. So, I’m just going to keep singing or screeching or whatever it is I do because it makes me happy.