Tuned In

He’s my child, after all. I can’t carry a tune, so it makes sense that he can’t either. Who understands a child as well as his parent? Who else has known a person his entire life? I know him like I know myself. I know he doesn’t do music.

Before I continue, you should know that there is music running through the veins of this family, and it makes sense that my son was drawn to playing an instrument. My husband leins. His brother plays the drums. Various uncles and cousins play the keyboard, drums, saxophone, and clarinet. We even have a family band that plays the signature family song at weddings. And that’s just on my husband’s side. On mine, we had a promising pianist who could have been a potential candidate for Julliard, had she cared enough to try.

So you can’t blame my son for dreaming of strumming a guitar at a camp kumzitz. But don’t blame me for doubting him either. My decision wasn’t baseless. I’d heard him practice his bar mitzvah parshah. I didn’t think he had inherited the gift of music that runs in our families.

But my son thought he did have the gift, and every month or so, with patience that belied his youth, he’d bring up the guitar again, and with what was becoming a familiar finality, I’d say no. My husband agreed with me, and he would know, I thought. He’d taught our child to lein.