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“Hips
Don’t Lie” plays all the time in my house. I am seven
years old, and I know all the words. I especially like the singer,
but I wish he let the girl sing more. I don’t think I’ve
heard any other voice like hers before. When my family listens to the
song, Mom won’t let us play it too loudly because she is trying
to work, but we all dance anyway, and sometimes we even convince her
to join us. But the best is when I’m in the car with Dad and we
can listen to it as loud as we want and sing as loud as we want. We
do this almost every time we drive somewhere together. He rolls down
the windows and plays the song and I keep turning up the volume even
though he says his Old Man Ears are sensitive, whatever those are.
Plus he’s not even that old, he only has a few gray hairs. I am
very proud of myself because I know all the words to “Hips
Don’t Lie”, and I only know all the words to a few songs.
Learning them all takes a long time. It is my favorite song I think,
but I also like “The Distance”. The band is called Cake,
which is silly but my dad listens to it all the time because he
really likes it. I know the words to that one too.
My
dad is what most people like to call a Mister Mom. He prefers the
term “Stay At Home Dad”, saying that he’s no mom,
he just enjoys getting to spend so much time with my brother and me,
that he could never do the work that my mother does all day. He’s
humble about how much he actually does for us. Cooking, cleaning,
constant carpools. It’s worth it, he says, just to know I get
to see your smile all day long. I think that’s a little cheesy,
but it makes me giggle so I guess it works.
You
would recognize the sound of the horns at their first blare. Shrill,
each note perfectly tongued, an ethnic display of instrumental
aptitude. Two men holler a few phrases back and forth, their voices
syncing with the rhythm of the trumpet, issuing the kind of prelude
that seems inconsequential because the energy in the air is already
so infectious. People want to dance, people want to move, and that
moment is almost here. Once the men have made their claims, the crowd
awakens. A new voice, raucous and rich, prefaces the incoming uproar
of sound and, in doing so, cuts through straight to me. You can hear
the smile in his words. I am excited for this moment every time.
SHAKIRA,
SHAKIRA!
I
accompany my dad to the grocery store on some nondescript spring
afternoon, windows down and volume up. We’re listening to “Hips
Don’t Lie” and I am fumbling with the word Barranquilla,
trying to sing it, but the song is too fast for me to keep up with
all of the unfamiliar syllables. And when it’s in a sentence,
no sir, that is not happening with my seven-year old diction.
-Do
you know what language that is? he asks.
I
think about it for a moment. I know most of the words that Shakira
and the man are saying. At least, I’ve heard them before,
though I suppose I’m not entirely sure what they mean. But if
I've heard them, that means it’s English, because I speak
English. The answer to his question seems simple. I am worried it’s
a trick.
-English?
He
chuckles. I don’t know why.
-Atta
girl. Most of the song is in English, but what about the words you
have a hard time saying?
-I
dunno.
-It’s
Spanish. Isn’t that cool?
That
is cool. If I can figure out how to say them, then that means I will
be able to speak Spanish.
The
song pushes me off edge of the cliff I was leaning over and the wave
of rolling percussion lifts me back up. The singer’s voice
swoops in, crooning some words in a delicious medley of English and
Spanish. I don’t know what those words mean, but I have heard
them so many times that I can almost deliver them with perfect
inflection.
And
then the woman. Her voice is throaty, a bit guttural, but alluring to
the point that I always savor her parts of the songs the most. I
think her name is Shakira, and considering the amount of times the
men shout her name in the background, they must be very excited to
have her on their song. Her lines are brief, but I savor every
silvery note she holds and every hurried gasp for breath in between.
Don’t
you see, baby, this is perfection, she says, and I agree.
Looking
out the window, I could imagine myself dancing with Shakira and being
as beautiful as I’ll bet she is. When her parts ends, it’s
easier to shift my eyes away from the blurred line of trees outside
the window and face the passenger seat in front of me. The man is
singing again, and my legs are kicking my seat in rhythm before I
even notice. A bunch of men are shouting Shakira’s name through
the whole song; a clue that she is about to return. Her chorus tugs
me from side to side, spinning me up in its energy. I could try and
will myself not to dance, but why would I want to? I just wish she
would sing a little more. I understand that it’s not her song,
but she has such a rare voice that I love so much. Not to mention,
she’s the only girl singing with all of these boys, and I am
awestruck that she’s not intimidated at all.
Music
is a constant in our household – that is something my dad makes
sure of. To wake us up in the mornings for Walker Elementary, he
bursts into our rooms, throws open the blinds, and bellows RISE AND
SHINE AND GIVE GOD YOUR GLORY, GLORY! over and over until we
uncover our heads from the pillows we have buried them under and
shuffle to the bathroom.
When
we listen to music in our house, it is blared through the speakers.
My mom’s pleas to “turn it down!” are no match for
the flurry of giggles from my brother and me as we prance around the
living room and leap across furniture, shrieking with glee.
Inevitably, my brother will lure her into this childlike realm of joy
with his big eyes and little diapered tush, and I will grab my dad’s
hand, using all of my child strength to drag him near us, thinking
that I am finally strong enough to get him on my own, not seeing that
he chooses to join us every time.
Every
time I beg my dad to press the button in our car that will rewind the
CD, he just laughs. I make him play it again and again until I can
fumble my way through the Spanish sections, blurting words that don’t
sound anything like words but hey, they’re in rhythm. I am so
preoccupied, I don’t even realize we should have been at the
grocery store at least three songs ago and instead are circling the
same few blocks. I keep singing.
-Does
he have any other songs? I ask.
-Who?
-The
singer.
-Sure
she does.
He
keeps his gaze on the road in front of him.
-No,
I mean, the main singer. The man.
Now
I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised, his
smirk growing.
-Reagan,
Shakira is the main artist. The man is just featured.
I
pause.
-You
mean he’s not on all of the songs, but she is?
-Exactly.
I
lean back in my seat and stop kicking my legs. I get to hear her
voice sing other things, I think, and maybe she’ll be the only
one singing. Maybe I won’t have to miss her when she leaves and
wait for her to come back. I look out the window at the smattering of
blurred trees and bushes. I think that I am proud of her. I think
that I am proud to be a girl like her.
On
the way back from the grocery store, we listen to “Hips Don’t
Lie” all the way through one more time. I feel like I know a
secret. I understand now that the man is singing about Shakira. She
must be very good at dancing; it’s all he sings about. For the
first time, it becomes very clear to me that this song is about her.
He
never really knew that she could dance like this. She makes a man
want to speak Spanish. She is on tonight. Her hips don’t lie.
The
average trip home from the store takes two repeats of this song, so
we listen again. When I sing, suddenly some of the Spanish is no
longer so difficult.
Como
se llama, bonita.
I
am finally beginning to understand the words as best as a
seven-year-old can. Shakira is in charge here. She will dance when
she wants to and she doesn’t need anyone else to sing on her
song to make it good.
As
we pull into the driveway, I unbuckle my seatbelt and lean as far
forward as my body will stretch until I am right behind his shoulder,
speaking into his ear.
-Dad,
how do you know if you have honest hips?
I
want to be just like her.
He
laughs, struggling to put together some words.
-Well,
I would say it’s when the movement of your hips, um, accurately
reflects your intentions?
I
shrug. That is good enough for me.
I
am 17. I have listened to “Hips Don’t Lie”
countless times in the past ten years, and it always has an uncanny
way of coming up when I shuffle the music on my phone. But right now
I am listening to something else, something fun and vibrant, and I
dance to it alone. I lean into my bathroom mirror and lift the
mascara brush to my eyelashes, trying to coat each lash evenly while
also keeping the song’s rhythm in my hips. I take a step back
and examine my work, blinking at myself from several different
angles. It’s not perfect, but I’ve already spent five
minutes on it and I still have to pick a lipstick color. I pout my
lips in the mirror, judging which shade from my collection would best
match the color buffed into the crease of my eyes. There is a pause,
a lapse in time, as the song previously playing from my phone ends.
The silence in the bathroom holds in the air, leaving me suspended
and weightless and waiting for the moment the music will begin again,
wondering what the first note will be, whether I will recognize it,
whether I will like it. I do not realize I am holding my breath.
I
recognize the sound of the horns at their first blare.
I
am seven years old, we just got back from the grocery store, and my
dad and I have listened to “Hips Don’t Lie” at
least eight times today. I think that I could listen to it a hundred
more, but I don’t think he feels the same. I would listen on my
own, but I don’t know how to work the CD player. Instead, I
creep up next to my dad and tug on his sleeve.
-Dad?
I
think he knows what I am going to ask but he just looks at me. He is
going to make me ask it anyway. I’m okay with that.
-One
more time?
He
smiles, walking over to the TV and slipping the disc into the slot.
He presses a few buttons on the remote but I am so anxious I don’t
pay attention to which ones. The car is good for driving, but no good
for dancing, and all of this energy from the ride to the grocery
store is still inside me.
The
notes from the horns are piercing and perfectly clear. The two men
holler their phrases back and forth, and the scene inside the song
awakens once more. The voice with the smiling words has returned,
here again to introduce her, and then it is the moment I am excited
for every time.
