My father is a jazz fan, and I grew up with Lady Day, Miles Davis, and Dizzy Gillespie playing in the background. I hated jazz, and though I now have a deep respect for it, I don’t much enjoy it. When I was little, I used to secretly test my father’s vast jazz knowledge. Whenever I casually mentioned a hardly-known jazz musician I had accidentally stumbled upon, one I felt sure my father had never heard of, he always surprised me, giving a little chuckle: “Yes, of course I know them,” as if saying, didn’t everyone? It was maddening. |
My mother is a little different. She enjoys Latino pop stars like Chayanne and Ricky Martin—which she often blasts in the car—and ABBA. A strange combination, indeed. She likes well-known musicians and bands and is unapologetic about it. I remember riding with her in the car, on our way to a store, just us two, and she played a CD filled with ABBA music sung in Spanish. I like her music taste much more than my father’s. However, my current music taste is like his in the sense that it is rigid and unmalleable. But it wasn’t until seventh grade when this started to become a fact.
I remember walking up the white stairs of ASFA, students streaming past me. I was scared of anyone who wasn’t in my grade. My friends and I used to call the twelfth graders “The Big Ones,” because if we weren’t paying attention, we thought they might trample us in the hall. I used to dart along the hall very quickly, saying “excuse me” to everyone I passed, so that by the end of the day, I must have accumulated at least two hundred “excuse-me’s.”
I remember walking up the white stairs of ASFA, students streaming past me. I was scared of anyone who wasn’t in my grade. My friends and I used to call the twelfth graders “The Big Ones,” because if we weren’t paying attention, we thought they might trample us in the hall. I used to dart along the hall very quickly, saying “excuse me” to everyone I passed, so that by the end of the day, I must have accumulated at least two hundred “excuse-me’s.”
One day, I was walking up the stairs with my friend, and she just happened to mention how much she loved the song “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen. I was curious, for I had most certainly heard that title before, yet I wasn’t sure if I had heard the actual song (at that point in my life, I was listening almost exclusively to show tunes). So I tucked the song title into my memory cabinet under “Look Up Later” and hurried after her to our next class. |
I might have forgotten to look it up for a while; the details are a bit fuzzy. What I do remember is, some time after, I threw my feet over the back of my leather couch at home and pushed in my earbuds. I looked up “Bohemian Rhapsody” on my phone, then pressed play. And then I listened. Usually, when it’s my first time listening to a song, I have to take a minute afterwards to scrutinize it, analyze how well the melody and the lyrics work together, before I decide if I like it. But not with “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I loved it immediately.
I remember whenever I was doing my homework, I’d play “Bohemian Rhapsody” on repeat. Now, it would be a year before I bought a CD full of Queen’s greatest hits; a year before I learned the names of Roger Taylor, John Deacon, Brian May, and, of course, Freddie Mercury; a year before I started searching for lesser-known Queen songs (the songs that nobody quotes); a year before I learned that Queen is not as obscure as I thought, though it is certainly not modern; a year before Queen became my absolute favorite band. For now, though, “Bohemian Rhapsody” pulled me in. I was taken with the melody, but most especially the lyrics. I’d sing the song in the shower. I’d hum it in the halls and smile at “The Big Ones,” although none smiled back.
I remember whenever I was doing my homework, I’d play “Bohemian Rhapsody” on repeat. Now, it would be a year before I bought a CD full of Queen’s greatest hits; a year before I learned the names of Roger Taylor, John Deacon, Brian May, and, of course, Freddie Mercury; a year before I started searching for lesser-known Queen songs (the songs that nobody quotes); a year before I learned that Queen is not as obscure as I thought, though it is certainly not modern; a year before Queen became my absolute favorite band. For now, though, “Bohemian Rhapsody” pulled me in. I was taken with the melody, but most especially the lyrics. I’d sing the song in the shower. I’d hum it in the halls and smile at “The Big Ones,” although none smiled back.
“Bohemian Rhapsody” leaked into my life. The lyrics floated around in my head and would pop up at random intervals throughout the day. At home, I played the song constantly, but I never mentioned this strange obsession to my parents, who I suppose must still have assumed I was listening to the same old show tunes.
Sometimes, I’d lock myself in my room (after I’d made sure nobody was on the second floor) and mimic strumming an electric guitar as Brian May’s solo played. I remember I was really emphatic about it, swinging my hair back and forth soulfully like a stereotypical rock star, making big movements with my arms, slowly sliding to the ground until my air guitar and I were almost in a huddle on the floor, but before we hit the ground, my legs gained superhuman strength, and I’d jump in the air and shake my head, clenching my lip with my teeth so that I’d look more intense.
Eventually, “Bohemian Rhapsody” slipped from my memory like a dream, replaced by more show tunes, not to awaken until a year later. My father still played his favorite jazz musicians, sometimes beckoned to me and said, “Listen to this!” and I’d reluctantly walk over. My mother still turned the volume on all the way when “Dancing Queen” or “Livin’ La Vida Loca” were on the radio, a sweet surprise. Both would point out a Broadway CD to me whenever we’d go to a music shop, and I’d smile and rush over. However, anytime I was in a store during that year when “Bohemian Rhapsody” was forgotten, and the song played, I’d unconsciously sing along in a barely-audible whisper, even if I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. So I guess some part of me still remembered after all.
Sometimes, I’d lock myself in my room (after I’d made sure nobody was on the second floor) and mimic strumming an electric guitar as Brian May’s solo played. I remember I was really emphatic about it, swinging my hair back and forth soulfully like a stereotypical rock star, making big movements with my arms, slowly sliding to the ground until my air guitar and I were almost in a huddle on the floor, but before we hit the ground, my legs gained superhuman strength, and I’d jump in the air and shake my head, clenching my lip with my teeth so that I’d look more intense.
Eventually, “Bohemian Rhapsody” slipped from my memory like a dream, replaced by more show tunes, not to awaken until a year later. My father still played his favorite jazz musicians, sometimes beckoned to me and said, “Listen to this!” and I’d reluctantly walk over. My mother still turned the volume on all the way when “Dancing Queen” or “Livin’ La Vida Loca” were on the radio, a sweet surprise. Both would point out a Broadway CD to me whenever we’d go to a music shop, and I’d smile and rush over. However, anytime I was in a store during that year when “Bohemian Rhapsody” was forgotten, and the song played, I’d unconsciously sing along in a barely-audible whisper, even if I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. So I guess some part of me still remembered after all.
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See that girl over there, wearing sunglasses, looking super awesome and cool? She is a super-secret agent. Her name is Tallaj. Blanca Tallaj. Don’t tell anyone. She is not even kidding. You may have to enter the witness protection program. Doesn’t matter. Keep your mouth shut. She is dead serious.