The Best Love in the World
I opened the stall door and hid inside. My breath was heavy. I had just escaped by squirming out of her grip and getting myself lost in the crowd, but she is not allowed in here. She can’t get me in here. I sat on the toilet seat with my tuxedo on and braced myself. In thirty minutes, it’d be over. It’d be too late; everyone will have returned home by then.
Footsteps came towards the stall and my heart started racing. A large, phlegm-filled cough—that could never belong to her—slowed my heart back down. The stall door next to me opened, and I heard my neighbor undo his belt and sit down. Moments later grunts, coughs, and the sound of a periodic plop invaded my ears. My stomach turned as his odor crept towards me, and I could see his ashy toes curl into his worn, brown sandals. This imprisonment, however, was better than what she wanted me to do.
Five years earlier, she first had her way with me. I was too young to have a complete memory of it, but a picture on our mantel evidenced the embarrassing and traumatic event. A children’s fashion show at our Thai temple was the scene. She dressed me, a then four-year old boy, as a young hill-tribe girl wearing a black skirt and matching pink fringed, sleeveless vest. Silver buttons acted as little bells that girlishly jingled with my every movement. She clipped hair extensions to the side of my head to create pig tails and mauled my face with blush, blue eye shadow, and a seductive red lipstick. She turned me into the cover model for some underground, Asian transvestite, child-bride magazine. The picture shows me smiling and waving, but looking deeper, the fear and confusion that trampled my mind is obvious.
She now intended to impale my reputation at our temple’s misspelled children’s talent show, Tinkle, Tinkle Little Star. She started rehearsing me months ago. I was going to sing a Thai song that roughly translated to “In the water, there are fish.” It was a song every Thai kid learns; a song that cheered the strength of Thailand
Secretly, however, another song really moved me. Whenever the video played on MTV, I’d run to sit directly in front of the set. In the first half of the video, a woman walks around backstage reminiscing about a time her mother encouraged her to perform in a talent show. In the second half, she emerges in a dazzling white, sequined gown that sparkles as she moves across the stage. Her hair is swept up; her make up is perfect. She glances towards her mother who is standing in the wings with a look in her eye that says, “Yes, momma, I’ve made it…but I couldn’t have done it without you.” Then her voice explodes stretching notes to sonic ecstasy, running up and down the music scale the way a ballerina leaps in one movement across a stage. During the final grand note, she runs to her mom and they embrace. The video was “The Greatest Love of All” and this woman, this Goddess, was Whitney Houston.
I sang The Greatest Love of All around the house constantly, and one day, my mother took notice.
“You like that song a lot, don’t you? What song is that?” she asked.
“It’s called The Greatest Love of All,” I responded.
“And who sing it?”
“Whitney Houston.”
Later that day, as usual, I practiced the fish in the water song. My voice carried a patriotic innocence. My hands were like koi swimming through an imperial pond. The rice went into my basket like I was the Michael Jordan of the rice paddy. My mom watched me while playing with the freshly permed curls in her hair, but when I finished her crossed her arms and scowled.
“You don’t really understand this song.”
“Uh-huh,” I insisted, “It’s about how great Thailand
“That only what the song say, but you don’t feel it in your heart. It’s better maybe you sing a different song.”
“What song should I sing?”
“Sing that song for me. The Whitney song, you know, The Best Love in the World.”
“The Greatest Love of All?”
“Okay, yes, that one.”
We were in the living room. My mother sat perfectly upright on the floral print couch. I dug my toes into the shag green carpeting and took a deep breath. “I believe the children are our future…”
Maybe, just maybe, the verses sounded fine. Perhaps the first chorus went decently. But then I got to the part where Whitney begins her vocal gymnastics, “The Greatest love of ALLLLLL…” The dog started growling and barking. The cat hissed and ran out of the room. My usually stoic father put his newspaper down and stared at me.
“What is he doing?” he asked.
“Just practicing daddy, don’t worry,” my mom replied smiling.
My sister, who was thirteen at the time, entered the room with a bottle of Sun-In hair lightener, “Why is Charlie screaming?” I looked down at the floor where the cat was now swatting at my ankles.
“I don’t think I should sing this song mom,” I spoke up.
“No, this the right song for you. You just need practice a little bit.”
“Mom,” my sister began, “you can not have Charlie sing Whitney Houston. Little boys do not sing Whitney Houston—especially little boys who can’t sing.” She cocked her head towards me.
“Be quiet, this no concern you,” my mom answered.
“Oh my god, mom, you are going to embarrass the entire family,” she said spritzing more Sun-In in her hair while pacing around in a circle. “You’re going to scar him for life. This is worse than dressing him up as a girl.”
“Mommy,” my dad attempted, “Just let him sing the Thai song. It’s easy for him.”
“He gonna sing The Best Love in the World,” she pounded her fist on the table like a gavel and her voice sharpened, “The Best Love in the World is the best song in the world, and Charlie is going to be the best singer in the world!”
My fate was sealed.
I practiced The Greatest Love of All for the next two weeks. The dog’s bark turned into a howl, and the cat sprayed the walls of the living room. My father read his newspaper in bed, and my sister started calling me “Chinky Houston”. All the while, my mother praised my voice and told me the whole world would know of my singing talent, “One day you sing in the Sydney Opera House,” she proclaimed.
The day of the talent show arrived, and I sat nervously in the audience. Kids played piano, recited a poem, did the pledge of allegiance, someone sang Mary had a Little Lamb. Watching these performances, it occurred to me that no one else had the humungous task of covering Whitney Houston. Suddenly fear and reality struck me. Was I good enough to sing The Greatest Love of All? Could I even really sing? Wouldn’t everyone be making fun of me for singing a girl’s song? I melted into the metal folding chair as the room went from warm to hot. My eyes instinctively searched for the door. I bolted, but she caught up to me and grabbed my arm.
“Where are you going?” she angrily whispered. I squirmed, dropped to the floor, and twisted my arm back and forth until I was free from her grip and ran to the only safety zone I knew.
The click of her heels came across the bathroom floor. How silly of me to think she wouldn’t enter the men’s bathroom.
“Charles? Charles?” she yelled. I raised my feet off the floor and tried to stay silent. I heard her opening each stall door. Finally, she opened my door and found me with my knees to my chest on the toilet seat. She grabbed me, but I resisted and clung to the toilet paper dispenser. In those days, however, she was so much stronger. She dragged me kicking and screaming back towards the stage as a roll of toilet paper unraveled behind us. Backstage, she held me in place like a prison guard.
“And now Charles Tinwan will sing The Best Love in the World by Whitney Houston,” the announcer declared. I refused to move and stood still on the staircase that led up to the stage. She pushed me, and I fell face first. She picked me up, carried me sideways, placed me right in front of the microphone and waited for me to begin. The audience uncomfortably shifted in their seats. The over-head lights began to cook the top of my head. My knees gave way allowing my body to sway and shake.
For the grand occasion this was supposed to be, my mom forgot one small detail. We had no music. I would have to sing The Greatest Love of All a cappella. In the audience, my sister covered her face with the program, my father looked down at the ground, and when I turned to look at my mother, she was smiling so hard her lower jaw vibrated. “Just sing,” she grunted.
And that’s when Miss Houston saved me. Whitney came through a side door and slowly glided down the aisle. She was shimmering in that same sparkling gown from the video. She stepped onto the stage, took my hand into hers, and knelt down beside me. She smelled like springtime and fresh laundry. “Let’s do this together,” she whispered in my ear. And we did. Whitney started, of course, but I joined in. Soon, I was matching her note for note and gesture for gesture. When we were done, the audience erupted into cheers and gave us a standing ovation. My dad threw his arms up into the air, and my sister was shocked and horribly jealous. Finally I looked to the side of the stage, and I could see my mother in the corner applauding furiously while tears welled up in her eyes.
Well, that’s what I tell myself now. Who wants to remember shitting your pants on stage?
I never sang again, but the tinkle and shit incident was not the end of my mother’s encouragement. Having decided my musical talent lay elsewhere, I was soon enrolled in violin and piano lessons. The violin was short lived, and I was a good but unremarkable piano player. By age sixteen, I was more interested in cigarettes and losing my virginity. My mother, however, would not give up on me. If anything, the pressure increased. You will become a pediatrician and save the children of the world. You will become a master engineer, return to Thailand
Yet when I return home, my mother still cups her hand against my cheek. She still looks at me with hope. “You will be great one day. You will be a…” She can’t always conjure a way to fill in the blank, but still she always believes.
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