Family Time

I had been sitting silently in our family living room, sandwiched between 40 Mongolians, all members of my grandmother’s family.  Two months into language lessons, I feel confident enough in my Mongolian to struggle through basic conversation one-on-one or in a small group, but 40 members of my extended host family had intimidated me into quiet hellos, heartfelt smiles, and an attempt to stay busy washing dishes so I wouldn’t need to navigate the seating arrangement.  Unfortunately, after we had finished off several varieties of salads, different rice plates, and a huge platter of meat, the power went out, making dish washing impossible.
So I sat with my extended family, as one by one, each person took a small glass of vodka and led the entire group through a traditional Mongolian song.  I knew some of the words to the two most common songs, and I sang along with the choruses.  As voices echoed off the walls, the songs seemed a little to big for such a confined apartment, and I pictured us all on the steppe, with the music stretching across the grass and into the sky.  I felt encouraged and a little less silent as I appreciated this family reunion and Mongolian tradition.  I even started to think of ways to introduce the tradition to my own family.
Then, one of the uncles called me out.  It was my turn to sing.
I stared at him.  What! No. Noooo I said.  You have to they said, and my heart began beating rapidly.  I began to rack my brain for songs to which I knew all of the lyrics, and all I could think of was the Lion King.  “I Just Can’t Wait to be King” is just not as magical as a Mongolian folk song.  I can’t I said, and the group moved on, disappointed in their relative’s American student.  I felt deflated.  My time to shine, my golden opportunity to be part of my Mongolian family had passed, and as I continued to sit, I desperately strained into the dustiest corners of my brain for an acceptable number of words of an atmosphere appropriate song.
Suddenly, I stood up and took my little glass.  I had it; I was ready.  The room quieted, surprised mostly, and I launched into a horrible rendition of “Rivers and Roads,” a song my sister introduced me to last fall.  To the chagrin of my fellow classmates, I had been singing it nearly constantly for weeks while sitting in trains, while reading menus, while riding camels, while walking to class.  As I struggled through my solo, I forgot words, skipped lines, missed notes, confused keys, and only sang one verse. I sat down knowing that I had successfully embarrassed myself in front of a family of meadowlarks and gold finches.  The room remained quiet, surprised and probably a little horrified that a member of their family could sing so terribly albeit a temporary relative they had never met before, couldn’t talk to, and will probably never meet again.
As they sat in shock, I felt that without any rehearsal or backup, I had successfully soloed my way into my extended Mongolian family, if only for one evening.  I relaxed into my chair and looked around.  I felt less sandwiched, less intimidated by the relatives crowding the apartment, and I sat among my family, occasionally sharing a smile with an auntie squeezed on the other side of the room.