Mama Song

Cubans, and other Hispanics, traditionally sing Las Mañanitas (The Mornings) to their loved ones on the morning of their birthdays. It’s a multi-purpose song that’s also warbled in Romeo-esque fashion from beneath balconies and accompanied by guitarists as a lover listens from above.

Every morning of every birthday of my life my mother has sung me this song. Actually, she’s woken me up with this song. A little tradition soothes the day and brings back feelings of kindergarten delights when life was crayolas and sunshine.

Mama’s voice is rigid with age, it crackles and runs out before a line is finished and her chords have trouble staying in the right key. But as she trudges along, the memories of a younger version of her replace the withered sound and all I hear is sweet love.

Today is my birthday, so I got my song. Later on in the day I retrieved a message on my cell phone. It was a man singing the song to me. It didn’t sound like my father. It sounded vaguely like my uncle and for a split second I thought he was using the song as a way of apologizing for being such a homophobic prick. But as the voice continued I remembered that people in my family don’t apologize.

The voice started to sputter—on purpose—and then to vocalize breaks and beats and rhythms. Congo drums and maracas and heels clicking on dancefloors. It ended with a jazz-scat improv. My friend Ivan, who I’ve been friends with since high school, remembered my birthday. I took his virginity, you know. So the song was all the more special.