When I was playing drums in a punk band, rocking out in a tank top and no bra, or just a bra and no tank top, I didn’t imagine my favorite performance would be with my 10-year-old son.
For three years, Luis Manuel played piano in his school’s variety show. In 5th grade, he decided to play guitar. Guitar was way cooler. He had taught himself to play guitar in like three months, you know, on YouTube: Chords, notes, picking, everything. He was going to play a rock song for the variety show; his friend Shane was going to play with him. They began practicing three months before auditions because they didn’t want to suck and they had girls to impress.
Then Luis heard a rumor that Shane wasn’t going to play with him. When he heard it again, I suggested he find a third person for his act just in case, but he said maybe Shane was just too busy to practice. Then two days before the audition, only two weeks before the actual show, Shane admitted that he was going to be in a dance act with his popular friends instead.
“Do you want to be in their dance act?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes and huffed.
“No, I want to play guitar.”
I was relieved.
“Maybe I won’t do it,” he said. I took a deep breath to hide my panic, not sure why I was so invested; then I told him to play every song he knew. I would help him decide which sounded best. He played “Float On,” which needed another guitar; the Beatles’ “Blackbird” sounded good, but the picking needed work; and the Weezer song had one really hard chord. When he played Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” we both knew it was the one.
Then it hit me. Luis’s participation in this event had become our family’s way of not being totally invisible. I worked full-time and made an effort to be involved, volunteering in the classroom and going on field trips when I could, but I was not part of the blond moms’ crowd or the stay‑at‑home-moms’ crowd, or an attending member of the PTA. I was the Chicana with chest tattoos married to a dark-skinned Mexican with an accent. I wasn’t going to let some fucking dance routine keep my son from changing his mind about performing in that show.
“I just wish I had someone to play with.” He looked dejected.
“You know, I can play that song on drums in my sleep.” I tried sounding nonchalant.
“You want to play with me?” He made a face.
“Look, I know you don’t think it’s cool to be in an act with your mom, but the auditions are tomorrow; there’s no one else.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding the way you do when you know you’re totally out of options. I wanted to hug him, jump off the couch, plan our outfits, and gush about how fun it was going to be. I restrained myself.
“What if someone teases me?”
“Just say this: ‘Does your mom play drums?’”
Luis continued to worry that he’d be teased for being in a band with his mom. I knew I had to keep a low profile, tone it down, wear a loose-fitting tank top and a bra, and no flashy makeup. I did put on red lipstick called “Rocker” before leaving the house.
“Next, we have Luis Manuel Peralta playing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’” the MC on the other side of the curtain read from the intro we wrote. “And no, that’s not his mom on drums.” The curtain lurched open, and Luis launched into one of the most recognizable chord progressions in rock and roll. Then I came in on drums, careful not to hit the snare as hard as I could or move my head wildly as I had in my band, Spitboy.
I nodded as we made the transition from the intro to the soft part that follows, and by the time we got to the distinctive chorus, da, da, da diga, diga, diga, da, da, da, the crowd was roaring. Then as we wound down for the big finish, Luis locked eyes with me and smiled wide. Looking steadily at each other, my son and I punctuated the end of the song, two musicians hitting each beat together.
Reprinted from Listen to Your Mother: What She Said Then, What We’re Saying Now, edited by Ann Imig by arrangement with G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, Copyright © 2015 by Ann Imig.
