Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Jennifer Oliver

December 12, 2007

Heartsong

Jennifer Oliver

When I first heard my husband sing, I laughed.

I thought he was kidding around. But, no, that was his real voice.

Stephen couldn't quite reach the notes, and for the most part, the tone of his voice was nasal.

I should know. I had taken voice lessons in high school through which I was able to garner the top spot in my section at a state-wide singing competition. Thus, I was a self-appointed expert in singing.

And he stunk. Not only did he sing off-key, but he sang loud. Very loud. In spite of rolling my eyes and my fingers plugging my ears, he sang as if the whole world was his audience. Sometimes he substituted words in songs just to bug me.

For 13 years I made fun of his singing. He sang even louder to spite me.

I, on the other hand, confined my singing mostly to the shower. I sang with the kind of full vibratto that would make Luciano Pavarotti sound like a pipsqueak. I sang better without my hearing aids because I could feel the music soar from the back of my throat into my sinus cavities where it resonated, and the shower stall provided the perfect mechanism to hear myself.

A funny thing began to happen though. I started to feel a declining confidence in my singing ability. I already had a profound hearing loss, but for some reason, I felt as if my hearing was getting worse. A trip to the audiologist showed that the remainder of my hearing hadn't diminished in any way. Perhaps I should've retained a vocal coach throughout my adult life. The one I had in high school was an older, eccentric woman, a diva in her day, who was skilled at extracting only the best from her students.

She had made me take an oath before I left for college that in no way should I ever stop singing.

She would be sorely disappointed if she saw me now, saving my voice for a daily hygienic routine.

During the planning of my parents' 50th anniversary, I volunteered to sing "Ave Maria," the same song that was sung at their wedding. I practiced for hours on end. The diction, the breathing patterns, all the techniques I learned had to be perfect. After all, it had been 20 years since I sang outside the shower.

One afternoon, being pregnant with our fourth child, I was luxuriating in a deep nap.

All of a sudden, a noise awakened me. Disoriented, I looked at the digital clock which informed me that it was well past eight at night.

There it was again. That noise.

"...I LOVE YOU, YOU LOVE ME..."

It was my husband, singing the Barney song to the boys in the bedroom next to ours. Their high-pitched voices interwove with his boisterous style of singing. It was a nightly ritual after prayers to sing the Barney song, then "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."

Apparently Stephen was putting all three boys to bed for the night. I relaxed, and for the first time I listened--really listened--to the man who's love for singing, no matter how awful, did not matter to the boys.

The enthusiasm in their untrained voices matched their father's. I laid there in the dark with tears in my eyes.

For the first time in my life I realized that music, sculpted in all forms and fashion, was born in the heart. No amount of voice training can elicit a song as perfectly as the one that wells up from the heart.

And Stephen's voice, in my expert opinion, never sounded more beautiful than that night.

I slipped out of bed to join the chorus that was my family. What may have sounded discordant to the casual observer was, in reality, perfect harmony of our hearts.

I never complained about Stephen's singing again.

Many people don't realize that deaf people also sing. They feel the vibrations and use the rhythm of their hearts, and their hands illustrate the soul of music. It's mesmerizing, watching music flow through the air with style and grace.

When I sang at the gala for my parents' 50th anniversary, I threw out all the rules and regulations that applied to singing. I ignored the remarks I had penciled in where I was supposed to breathe, where I was supposed to hold a note and remember the correct diction. That night I just sang from my heart.

I think my old voice coach would have approved.