We never listened to the radio growing up. We were a family prone to road trips, and my father was not only the driver, but also our person on aux. Our 2009 Toyota Corolla was always filled with CD cake box spindles that held — at least in my brain back then — hundreds of CDs.
My dad grew up with music. I’m not sure if all math professors can carry a tune and always want to sing karaoke, but he certainly can. He was a snob when it came to music. He only listened to old Singhalese songs with a slow melody, songs about love and comfort that he always described as beautiful. He made sure to burn all of these songs onto blank CDs and save them for our drives, whether it was to St. Louis to see the Gateway Arch or just to the grocery store. They were on repeat and I memorized every single word, even though I didn’t fully know what they all meant and I definitely couldn't carry a tune. He never told me I was singing the words wrong (or that I was probably killing his eardrums), he just sang along and we continued our way through his CDs.
There was one CD that did have songs with words I could pronounce: it was the “English songs” CD, and I was always the only one that ever wanted to listen to it. Our house always had the TV on during dinner time tuned to reality talent shows. American Idol, The Voice, The X Factor. My dad’s encouragement of my car karaoke started my dream of wanting to become a pop star — and I considered this research on how to get there.
My dad would watch with me, rooting for our favorites and taking the eliminations personally. We would listen and judge, and if a song particularly caught my dad’s attention, I would find him on the computer the next day, on YouTube, trying to find the song he so briefly heard. It got to a point where he had enjoyed enough songs, so he decided to create its own CD — hence, the English songs CD.
It would give you whiplash, for sure. There was no curation happening, and I didn’t really understand why my dad chose certain songs over others. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized he picked the songs that I would get up and sing to. And since I liked them, he made himself like it. From American Idol’s own Phillip Phillips’ "Gone, Gone, Gone" to Toni Basil’s '80s hit "Hey Mickey," I watched my immigrant father fall in love with American music from the backseat.
Eventually, we turned on the radio. The CDs made their way to boxes to gather dust, and my dad began to learn the latest mainstream songs. The tables turned, and he was the one singing songs with words he didn't fully know with meanings he didn't understand. Now, our car rides, whether we’re heading to the grocery store or to Florida, have to have music playing. I can’t be in a car in silence (and my family wonders why). But whenever my dad rolls his eyes and laughs to turn on the radio after I beg for music, I still wish that he was pulling out the English songs CD so I could sing along while he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, always cheering me on.
