Music is like a time machine that can transport us to specific moments in life. I did dinner theater in Chicago, and every time I hear “YMCA,” I’m suddenly in the Windy City. The beautiful eight-bit sounds of Super Mario Bros. can take me to Christmas morning 1990, and when I hear the Mulan soundtrack, the sadness of my middle school years washes over me and I’m standing with my choir teacher who took away my “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” solo moments before the choral concert. My college years are loaded with special songs, one in particular that will always hold a special place in my heart and emotionally carry me right back to my freshman year.
When I arrived in Athens, Ohio, for my first year of college, I was excited to start fresh. Even though Athens is a small town, it was a big city to me. I had spent my entire life in a suburb of Cleveland, so going to the other side of the state felt like a huge deal. Plus, Love & Basketball was one of my favorite movies, so despite not playing a sport or having a significant other, I was delighted to enter the dramatic “third quarter” portion of my life, like Quincy and Monica did when they got to college. All I was missing was a meal card, a girlfriend (I was still in the closet), and a tiny basketball hoop in my dormitory to play strip basketball. I eventually got the meal card.
One of the requirements my freshman year was to take a language course. I chose American Sign Language (ASL) hoping to better connect with a new friend who was deaf. The class, pre-final, went by swimmingly. The professor was a woman in her forties who was tough and intelligent, but she didn’t seem to have a funny bone in her body. I tend to find the humor in everything, and this woman never cracked a smile. Not a chuckle to be found within spitting distance of this woman. She was like an episode of Homeland. People who don’t have a sense of humor leave me uneasy, but my grades were consistently good throughout the year, and I proved to myself I had the ability to learn another language. It may sound stupid, but it felt like a new world opened to me. Plus, one of my new besties, Jenny, was in the class with me.
Because I was thriving, I got maybe a little too comfortable in the class. Some confidence is good, but too much can lead you down a bad path. Toward the end of the year, the professor dropped the bomb on us.
“For the final exam, you must sign a children’s book in front of the class,” she said.
I turned to Jenny and we began spitballing book ideas. She mentioned Dr. Seuss, while I wondered if Where the Wild Things Are would be too long for a presentation. As we were talking, another student raised their hand.
“Do we have to do a book?” he asked.
“You can do a song, just bring in the music and you can sign along with it.”
Music seemed like more work, so I shrugged it off and thought about more book ideas. We had a week before the presentation, so I figured I would go to the library and find something easy that would also impress. Class ended that day, and Jenny and I headed straight back to the dorm rooms.
Detour
Dorm living is the best. My favorite part was the communal aspect of watching television. I’ll never forget the entire floor watching the season two finale of Grey’s Anatomy. Izzie and Denny had a love story for the ages. I could cry right now thinking of Katherine Heigl in a merlot-colored dress, cozying up to the dead body of Jeffrey Dean Morgan while Snow Patrol played in the background. BRB going to get some tissues…
…back.
Our dorm floor also loved American Idol. We kept a journal during the season, and we would write down all the batshit things Paula Abdul said after performances. I personally don’t think the show ever recovered from Paula’s leave. That original panel was magic. Magic! I eventually returned to watch the Mariah Carey season, but nothing compared to Ms. Abdul saying nonsensical things at hopeful young singers. Remember that time she critiqued a performance that had yet to happen on the live show?
THAT MOMENT IS WHY I LOVE TELEVISION.
When the other judges and Seacrest corrected her, she seemed stunned. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go YouTube it. I’m not saying she was a mess, but I am implying it.
Anyway, back to my ASL class. This course was my last class of the day, so often, Jenny and I would leave and meet up with friends for boozing. This particular night, we decided to do one of those “power hours” in the dorm. If you’re not familiar, it’s a drinking game where you listen to music and the song changes every sixty seconds. Each time it does, you drink. Someone had the bright idea to do it with liquor as a challenge, so every sixty seconds, we would take a sip of the cheapest vodka we could find. I’m constantly concerned with “gut health” now that I’m in my thirties, but back then I would chug from a nine-dollar liter of gas station liquor that tasted like old feet. By minute fifty, we were wasted and singing at the top of our lungs. This particular Power Hour was a ’90s theme, so every minute would be a different song from the era. One of the last was Michael Bolton’s “How Can We Be Lovers,” which was released in 1990, so it just barely made the cut. It’s one of those songs that not everyone necessarily loves but everyone accidentally knows every lyric to, like “All Star” by Smash Mouth. Jenny and I were singing along and having the best time when she joked that it would be funny if one of us performed it for the ASL final. We quickly laughed it off and finished the power hour.
After the sixty-minute mark, we all headed off to the bar. There was a place on campus that was eighteen and over and known for being lax with fake IDs, so we spent most of freshman year there. They also had a pool table and jukebox that made it a welcoming establishment for the older townies, so it was great for people-watching too. When we got there, Jenny and I were just drunk enough to think we would have a successful pool game and also so drunk that we would actually have a terrible pool game. We had spent an hour consuming the foot vodka, so we racked the balls and decided to make things interesting.
“What should we bet?” I slurred.
“A bet, huh? How about whoever wins gets to pick what the other person does for their ASL final,” she replied.
“Deal!”
It’s important to note that we could barely stand at this point, let alone play pool. I think it took us about an hour just to finish the game, and I looked like one of those inflatable tube men stationed in front of car dealerships as I waited my turn.
Jenny won.
As she was thinking about what song to make me sign for my ASL final, another friend was playing a song on the jukebox. It was Khia’s “My Neck, My Back.”
“Do this song!” Jenny shouted.
Don’t get me wrong, that song is a forever bop, but it’s hardly appropriate to sign about a pussy and a crack in a classroom setting.
“I can’t do this. I’m not signing a song about my pussy and my crack,” I reasoned.
“But that’s the bet. You lost, so you have to sign about your pussy and your crack,” she replied.
“I’m sorry, but it’s too far. The professor will fail me the moment I sign about licking my—”
“They play it on the radio!” Jenny interrupted.
“Not with the ‘pussy and crack’ in it, it’s censored!” I argued.
“Forget it.”
“No, I lost the bet. Fair is fair. I’ll do any song that doesn’t have ‘pussy and crack’ in it. Anything else.”
“Fine, then do the Michael Bolton song,” Jenny said.
“‘How Can We Be Lovers’?”
“Yeah. There are no swear words.”
“Deal. I’ll do that one,” I said.
Eventually we stumbled back to the dorms, our feet chaotically stomping around campus like two baby giraffes fresh out of the womb.
The next morning, I woke up fresh as a daisy because…youth. I spent the afternoon debating in my head if the Michael Bolton song would be appropriate to sign. The word lovers felt sort of weird, but, again, at least it wasn’t Khia. I gave in and spent the week learning to sign it.
Jenny and I eventually headed off to our ASL final. She had prepared One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss, and I had memorized the power ballad about making love after making amends with a scorned partner. On the way, we theorized what other students would do, figuring at least a few others would do music.
We arrived at the classroom and there were a bunch of older people who looked like my parents in the room. Seated in front of the adults, there were very young children, around age six to eight. I assumed either they, or I, had walked into the wrong classroom.
The professor walked in and closed the door behind her. Apparently, I was in the right place and so were all the adults and young children filling up the space.
“Welcome to the ASL final, books away. Today you will be signing your prepared children’s story. I’ve brought in some guests to help judge your work, so please say hello to the Deaf Boys and Girls Club of Southeast Ohio,” the professor said.
Shit.
I thought I would be performing a Michael Bolton song for a classroom of college students, not six-year-olds. I was already on the fence about signing my chosen-for-me song, so I raised my hand to ask if I could do it privately. The professor pointed at me and when I began to ask my question, she signed something back that I didn’t understand in my anxiety haze.
“She said we’re only to use sign for the remainder of class,” Jenny whispered.
“I can’t sign Michael Bolton to a group of deaf children,” I told her.
I looked to my left and saw the smiling faces of kids ready to be entertained.
The professor instructed the first student to stand and start. That young woman got up in front of the group and signed The Cat in the Hat. Another student followed with Goodnight Moon. The man who asked about doing a song was next. My heart rate slowed as I anticipated his performance. Since he was the one who asked to do a song, surely he was doing some pop music, right? He popped his CD into the CD player at the front of the room and signed along to “Old MacDonald.” Old MacDonald. What the fuck? I thought he would do a Ludacris song or maybe the Pussycat Dolls…SOMETHING popular and on the radio at the time. Not Old Mac-motherfucking-Donald. Jenny went next and, of course, slayed her Dr. Seuss performance with ease.
As Jenny was wrapping up, I wanted to leave my body. Remember that movie Under the Tuscan Sun with Diane Lane, where she escapes her existence and starts a new life in Tuscany? I was ready to run out of that classroom and buy a villa. If only I had more than seven dollars in my bank account. It was so rude of Diane Lane to present that perfect film to us, knowing I couldn’t afford to live out my own version of the story. Every other student signed a kid’s book. Did no one else hear her say that we could do a song? Did she say only a “nursery rhyme” or book? I was sweating profusely, and my heart was beating out of my chest. The only thing that calmed me down was knowing I wouldn’t be signing about my pussy and my crack.
Rather than risk failing the class, I went up to the stage…I mean, I went up to the front of the classroom. I popped my CD in and waved to the children as the opening chords of Michael Bolton’s “How Can We Be Lovers” began to play. When I looked up, I saw one of the parents smiling ear to ear before the lyrics even started. She was a good time gal, I could tell. And it comforted me imagining that she likely met one of her ex-husbands back in 1991 when she was drunk on whiskeys with a single splash of Diet Coke at a local dive bar. I could see on her face that the song brought back great memories for her. I like to think her birth name was Eleanor, but she changed it to Vyper or Sprindelle in the ’80s. I wish I knew where Vyper is now, but I digress.
The other adults looked bewildered when the power ballad kicked into high gear. I began to sign alongside the big-haired crooner, trepidatious at first. One of the parents covered the eyes of her child, while another shook their head in disgust as I signed about lovers. By the second chorus, I was in the zone. I imagine it was how Queen Britney Spears felt when she performed songs off her album In the Zone. For the most part, the children just looked grossed out and certainly didn’t seem to enjoy it in the slightest. I once tried to watch the movie Donnie Darko at my friend’s house, and his grandma decided to watch with us. It’s a very dark, often confusing, artistic film. She spent the first half hour looking at the screen the way someone looks at their spouse when that spouse farts in bed. That was basically how those kids looked at me. Disgusted. Like they were my friend’s grandmother, and I was the first half hour of Donnie Darko.
I focused all my energy on Vyper, pretending she was the only one in the room. I could see out of the corner of my eye that the youths did, at least, look like they understood the tale of a scorned lover who wondered aloud if he could continue a sexual relationship with someone he argued with all the time. I think it’s because I committed to the bit. They tell me I can’t print the lyrics in this book, so go ahead and take a beat to hop on Spotify and listen to the Michael Bolton song if you’re unfamiliar.
The Deaf Boys and Girls Club of Southeast Ohio witnessed something they likely did not expect when they arrived on campus that day. I’m certain those parents wouldn’t let their kids step foot in a college classroom for years to come. As for myself, I pageant smiled through the remainder of the song with my head held high. I was proud I did such a good job, despite the awkwardness. The professor, however, was horrified by my performance. She gave me a C minus, telling me that she had to take off points for my misinterpretation of the assignment. I think she would’ve docked me more if she didn’t know it was her own fault for not specifying that it had to be a kid-friendly song. I no longer remember how to sign the entire thing, but I can still do the chorus of “How Can We Be Lovers.”
The experience taught me a valuable lesson about commitment. Sometimes we find ourselves in situations that are uncomfortable. Three minutes and fifty-five seconds in front of a crowd can feel like a lifetime, but you’ll eventually get to the end of the song whether the children in the room like it or not. There are always going to be times that we want to run when life gets tough, and running is an option. You can head off to Tuscany and start a brand-new life under that Tuscan sun, or you can see something through with a smile on your face and, hopefully, a woman like Vyper in the audience. I think the most important thing I learned that day is to remember that life can always be worse. While I wish I would’ve signed a children’s book and earned myself a higher letter grade, I’m so grateful that I didn’t enter the classroom and sign about my pussy and my crack to the Deaf Boys and Girls Club of Southeast Ohio.