You look like a monkey...

Today was my son’s fourth birthday. As we sang to him and celebrated him, I was suddenly flashed to my childhood. I realized that my parents did not do this simple thing, of singing a normal birthday song for me.

My dad (always arrogant about his singing ability and voice) would often distort the normal birthday song. He would slide the pitch up and down, making his eyes dance and throwing everyone else off of pitch, so that the song would end in a loud, cacophony of shouting and laughing. But more often, we would sing other songs.

One of them went (to the same tune) 

Happy birthday to you,

You live in a zoo

You look like a monkey

And you smell like one too!

Or, if he was in the mood, he would sing the happy birthday song from the Adams family. In his deepest, most morose voice, while trying hard not to smile, he would sing:

Sickness sadness and despair

People dying everywhere

Happy birthday to you…

Happy birthday to you…

Now, these were mostly happy memories. There was much laughter. As kids, we all loved it. We were kids, our dad was acting like a kid. What more could we want?

As an adult I realize, however: it was always about him. Dad always found ways to subtly slide himself into the limelight. Either singing purposely off key, much louder, too soft, singing goofy lyrics, or singing a completely different song. The birthday song became his own little limelight.

And the words. What terrible words! Who would sing that over their child?

Of course it was a joke. It was funny. But humour does not excuse all things.

I would never tell my child that they smell and look like a monkey: especially not in front of their friends. Especially not on their birthday. This is the sort of behaviour that one would expect from other immature children, on a school-ground. But not from one’s father.

As I think these memories, I can see that little boy. He is blushing, and smiling. Yes, there is a smile on his chubby face.

But is it a smile of pleasure? Is he so affirmed and loved that he can’t contain himself? 

It is a blush of embarrassment. That was my constant feeling during these moments. Embarrassment. I thought I did not like being the centre of attention, did not like the song. But it wasn’t that. I did not like being made fun of. And I did not like my dad, taking the centre of attention, and using that as an occasion to ether call me a monkey, or put a curse of my birthday by calling it a day of death, sadness and despair.

It was fun. Kids were laughing. There was cake and sugar everywhere.

But what I experienced on my birthdays was not right.