Living as a Tone-Deaf Person

As a child, whenever I sang, my friends would laugh. When I asked why, they would just say it was funny. No matter how earnestly I sang, I couldn't help but avoid singing since it always made people laugh. As my voice deepened during puberty, even more people laughed when they heard me sing. Although I found high notes challenging, I thought I sang fairly well, but others’ laughter made me dislike singing even more.

 

In middle school, music classes that focused on theory (music theory) weren’t too difficult for me, but in high school, our music teacher, who specialized in vocal music, made us sing throughout the class. As someone who was tone-deaf, I absolutely hated music class. Of course, our tests were performance-based, and I always received the minimum score of 55 points, which significantly lowered my overall ranking.

 

One day, during a music test, I hadn't even finished the first verse when the teacher's angry voice interrupted me, "Sit down, you brat! Are you trying to compose your own song or what?" My seatmate, who had sat next to me for two years, was also quite bad at singing (though better than me) and occasionally scored the lowest mark of 55 along with me, which provided some consolation.

 

Although I don’t like singing at all, I love music more than anyone else. I take great pleasure in listening to music and consider myself quite knowledgeable about music theory. Even now, I like to show off my limited knowledge by identifying notes and discussing transpositions or scales, which often earns me a frown from my wife. Sometimes, I recount anecdotes about composers I read in a music history book a few years ago, which makes my wife roll her eyes and beg me to stop. I admit that my tendency to show off what I know is a big problem.

 

Before coming to the US, I often had to sing during company dinners with colleagues, which was always very distressing. I would repeatedly go to the bathroom, hoping my turn would pass, but my cunning colleagues never let me escape and insisted on hearing me sing. Singing sober was difficult, so I often drank heavily before my turn came.

 

Whenever I sang, there wasn’t a single person who didn't laugh. Except for me. It always hurt my feelings, ruining a good time and a nice meal. No matter how much I tried to avoid singing by making excuses, my boss and colleagues would force me to sing, leaving me no choice. They would make me sing while laughing and teasing, saying things like, “Here comes a song... if you don’t start singing, we’re coming after you...” I really hated such gatherings, but there was no way around it in the Korean organizational culture.

 

I never understood why Koreans force someone to sing even when they don't want to or can't sing well. Even after coming to the US, I occasionally had to sing. Although there was less coercion among well-acquainted friends compared to Korea, it was still difficult to skip my turn when it came around.

 

Finally, I decided to learn a few songs that I could confidently sing. I recorded a one-hour tape with one song per side and practiced repeatedly whenever I had time. This was when I worked in Alabama. For about six months, I played the tape and sang along loudly during my 30-minute commute through cotton fields. I felt more confident after this practice. One day, thinking I had mastered the songs, I auditioned for my wife. Her review was, “I can see you put in a lot of effort, but it’s just bearable to listen to,” which was disappointing.

 

The few songs I managed to sing decently after such effort were "Daejeon Blues," "The Road to Samp'o," and "Pioneer." I alternated between these songs at gatherings, making people think I had a diverse repertoire. However, I never heard anyone say I sang well. Some found it entertaining, but others, behind my back, would say, “I heard he couldn’t sing, but I didn’t know it was that bad.” Despite my strenuous practice, I hardly felt the effort was worth it.