Learning to Whistle

Learning to Whistle

by Teresa H. Janssen

Photo by Russell Burt

The year I turn seven, I become obsessed with whistling. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, pucker my lips, and blow. No sound. I keep trying. I push air through pursed lips while watching Bewitched and Mr. Ed. My constant puffing irritates my sisters, so I practice alone in the woods across the street or high above the backyard from a branch of the red cedar. The robins make it seem easy. I squeeze my lips to make a small ‘o’, cover my lower bicuspids with the sides of my tongue and push the tip up behind my lower front teeth, which are permanent now. On the walk to school one day, I am thrilled to hear the warble I’ve been after.
          It works best to wet the lips and blow gently at the beginning, then blow harder to channel more air to the opening. My tweet gets louder. I get a different pitch when I change the position of the middle of my tongue. I learn to inhale whistle, too, and a breathy vibrato, though I never manage the placement of a finger or two in the mouth for that piercing whistle some of the neighbor kids master. I am proud of my sweeter, more melodic trill. I can whistle as loudly as a bird. I whistle my favorite songs, “On Top of Old Smoky” and “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” My whistle becomes the voice I don’t have.
          I am, in 1966, a nearly silent child. With three talkative, articulate older sisters, it seems that one of them always says what’s on my mind before I get the chance. I camp out in a corner of the living room, observe and listen to the chitchat around me, or crawl behind the couch and retreat into an interior world.
          It’s possible my silence is a result of the major concussion I suffer at the age of two when I fall off the top of a high slide onto a cement playground. I don’t know how long I am unconscious but remember coming to on a wooden bench in the rec center locker room, my bloody face and limbs covered with wet paper towels. Whatever the cause, I am a child whose words are often locked inside.
          My sisters chatter about school, teachers, and the people who live on our block. Among the nineteen families on our street, there are seventy-two children—always someone or something to discuss—the Sullivans’ new car, the Bowlings’ new baby, the Allard boys’ haircuts, the McWeeney girls’ new muu muus. But we skirt other topics. We don’t discuss conflict, money, sex, or our parents’ divorce. In our tightly knit Catholic community, divorce is still considered a sin by some, a social stigma by most.
          Whistling helps me express the feelings I can’t convey. Confusion as to why we are the only family on the block without a dad. Hopes that mom will find a babysitting job so we can buy groceries. Worries that the pipes will freeze when the furnace runs out of oil. Fears we might have to move.
          I don’t know anyone else who whistles as much as I do. My inspiration comes from movies I see on Sunday night’s Wonderful World of Disney. Jiminy Cricket sings to Pinocchio, “give a little whistle and always let your conscience be your guide.” If an insect can teach a puppet to whistle, surely I can learn, too. Snow White croons, “Whistle While You Work,” while the friendly birds tweet and help her clean house. Even the seven dwarves whistle while they march home from the mine. But what really gets me chirruping is the soundtrack of The Andy Griffith Show. I want to be Opie with a dad who takes me fishing. I am hoping for happier times, and whistling seems to be a ticket for the journey there.
          Not that music isn’t in our house. We have a turntable and borrow albums from a family down the street. We listen to Burl Ives, Andy Williams, and Perry Como and to movie soundtracks—Camelot, Man of La Mancha, My Fair Lady, and our favorite, Sound of Music. My sisters love to sing and they sing well. I sing off-key. I am not sure how it happens; perhaps I exaggerate to get attention, but everyone decides that I have a terrible voice.
          One day, my sisters take me to the school music room and stand me before the choir director in her long white robe and black and white Dominican habit. Maybe they have lured her there by saying I have an exceptional voice. They tell me to sing a tune. I choose “Try to Remember,” not an easy melody to begin with. I ham it up. I sing my worst. It is quite a performance. Sister Damien sees right through me. She turns away, complaining about children who waste her time.
          I give up on singing and dedicate myself to the whistle. Whistling makes me happy. Like smiling, humming, a dog’s wagging tail and a cat’s purr, it soothes me and leads me to believe that everything is going to be okay.

*

        

I can’t know at the time, but I have joined millions of whistlers around the world. Whistling is a universal phenomenon and one of the earliest means of human communication, initially to imitate birds, perhaps the inspiration for first human words and songs. People whistle for pleasure, competitively, and as a substitute for language.
          Whistled languages are alternate linguistic systems that convert the spoken word into whistles. They usually evolve in remote, mountainous places to communicate over long distances.
          Speakers of a tonal Chinantec language in the cloud forests of mountainous northern Oaxaca, Mexico, whistle complex messages through the mists, using the same pitches, syllables, stresses, and tenses as their spoken language. A coming-of-age ritual for males once included demonstrating their whistling fluency, but it is mostly older men that can whistle conversations now. Partly due to the use of loud speakers in the village and walkie-talkies to communicate over rugged coffee-growing expanses, few ‘speak’ the whistling language now.
          In the islands of the Canary archipelago, whistling languages were developed by the Indigenous people to carry messages and warnings across steep ravines and plateaus. After colonization, the languages adapted over time to communicate non-tonal Castilian Spanish. The whistling language on the island of La Gomera survives because of its recognition as a cultural heritage by UNESCO and a 1999 law that requires it to be taught in the schools. On a good day, the whistled words can carry two miles to the sea.
          In the Pontic Mountains of northern Turkey, in the remote village of Kuşköy, residents have been whistling to communicate across the precipitous tea-growing and herding region for hundreds of years. Their language, called kuş dili or “bird language,” translates non-tonal Turkish in varied pitches. Though it was recognized in 2017 by UNESCO and yearly whistling competitions continue, the increased use of cell phones for distance messaging is threatening its survival.
          Whistling is used by the Hmong in the Himalayas to communicate across fields and traditionally as a courtship song. It is used by hunters in Amazon forests, by Ethiopians in the Omo Valley, and by Inuit whale hunters in the Bering Sea. There are believed to be more than seventy whistled languages in the world, though many are on the brink of disappearing.
          When you lose a language, says Paja Faudree, a linguistic anthropologist who has studied whistled speech in Mexico, “you’re not just losing the particular way of communicating and passing things back and forth, but you’re also losing the social world that goes along with that.”

*

        

When I am ten-years-old, my world undergoes a seismic shift. First, after nine years of separation, my parents remarry each other. My dad moves back. I am no longer a child of divorced parents. Second, I stop whistling.
          Fourth grade music class. We sit on the wooden risers of the square music room between the grade school bathroom and lunchroom kitchen. It is a special day. Sister Anne, our music teacher, passes out cylindrical objects in green corduroy pouches, one to a child. We untie them and pull out brown plastic flute recorders. We put them to our mouths and blow and blow. The room fills with high-pitched screeching that reverberates off the linoleum floor and concrete block walls. I cover my ears. When Sister Anne shouts loud enough for us to stop, we put our recorders down and listen as she teaches us about music. Over time, we learn about notes and where to put our fingers over the little holes to make different sounds.
          Sister Anne tells us that we will learn to play three songs and at the end of the year we will have a concert for our parents. We are to take our recorders home and will need to practice every day.
          I blow on my recorder in the living room. The dog howls. I am sent to my room to play, but even then, the sharp notes pierce the thin wall between bedroom and living room. Go to the basement, my father tells me. He is new at being a dad and wants to assert his authority. He thinks it’s funny to send me to play in a soundproof box.
          I descend the stairs into the dark, unfinished basement and close myself into the tall narrow cubicle. The shrill notes bounce off the glass and ring in my ears. I used to think it was cool to have an old-fashioned phone booth in the basement, with a beveled-glass accordion door that I could close. But I find no joy in solitary confinement with my recorder. Practice feels like punishment. An obedient child, I carry on. I learn the notes to the three songs. I play in the concert that June. I never play the recorder again.
          That year I stop whistling, too. I have lost a language that was my own. I spin into adolescence without a means to express my feelings.
Perhaps I stop whistling because I notice that other girls don’t do that. It falls into that category of pursuits that belong to boys, like playing football on the street and spitting, shouting, and swearing unapologetically.
         I had never heard the American folk saying,

          Whistling women and crowing hens
          Always come to some bad ends,

yet I seem to have internalized the message. Nice girls don’t whistle. If I had only known about the legion of American women who have whistled their way to fame and happiness, I might have had the confidence to continue.

                                                                

The most famous American female whistler was Alice J. Shaw. She was born Allie Horton, a tomboy like me, who loved to whistle. It is said that her parents, believing the practice vulgar and unladylike, discouraged her so regularly that she stopped. Many years later, a member of New York’s high society and divorced mother with four young daughters, Alice tried to support her family as a seamstress, but failed. So she returned to the practice she once loved.
          According to Daniel H. Resnick’s 1982 American Heritage article “Whistling Women,” Alice explained to a newspaper reporter, “Whistling seemed to come [back] to me like an inspiration, or a sudden gift… so I put myself under a good singing master and learnt whistling, just as a woman with a voice would learn singing. . . .”
          After diligent practice, she honed her skill to an art. In 1886 she made her whistling debut at a New York fundraiser before an audience of the wealthy. Her rendering of complex songs with pure tone and emotion surprised and excited the crowd. After charming American audiences, she proceeded to England where she was hosted by the Lord Mayor of London and performed for the Princess of Wales and her friends. They paid handsomely to hear her whistle, described by the English press as “a most comprehensive instrument, capable of stress, swell, staccatos, trills and tremolos, with a range of two and a half octaves.” According to Resnick, Alice Shaw replaced Buffalo Bill as the most popular American star in London. She later performed in France, Germany, Russia, India and South Africa, usually accompanied by her four daughters.
          Upon returning to the United States, “The Whistling Prima Donna” embarked on multi-city concert tours. She practiced hours each day to master her repertoire and taught her daughters to whistle beautifully, too. In 1906 her twins joined her to form a whistling trio on the vaudeville and lyceum stages. She never married again. Single mom and entrepreneur, she shirked society’s gender-role expectations and followed her passions to lead an extraordinary life.
          Alice J. Shaw was a trailblazer, followed by a succession of notable female whistlers. Agnes Woodward, a professionally trained singer, took up the serious study of whistling, developed a system for teaching it, ‘The Bird Method,’ and opened her own studio. Her method is still used today. By 1909 she had founded the California School of Artistic Whistling where she trained whistling duets, trios, and quartets and the famous thirty-member women’s Bird Whistling Chorus to perform at a variety of events. She eventually published her method in Whistling as an Art.

          A young Oregonian, Lota Stone, saw an ad for Woodward’s book in the Chautauqua magazine, took lessons at the L.A. School, and by 1924 was licensed to teach The Bird Method. Upon opening her own Portland whistling studio, one of the first things she taught her mostly female students was Agnes Woodward’s version of American folk wisdom:

          Girls who whistle and hens that crow
          Will make their way wherever they go.

The early decades of the twentieth century were America’s golden age of whistling. I was born forty years too late.

                                                                

Two years after I give up on the recorder and quit whistling, my friends in public school start playing instruments in band class. I ask to have music lessons. My parents explain that since they could not afford private lessons for my older sisters, it would be unfair to give them to me. I understand. Parity is highly valued by children in large families with limited resources.
          I adjust to new family dynamics as my father figures out his role and my oldest sister leaves home. I lose myself in books, especially the twists and turns of detective stories, Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon, my idols. Secret codes intrigue me—and the promise that I might again have a language of my own. I memorize codes and make up new ones. I begin a prolific note exchange with my best friend, Katy, using our private secret code. Over the following year, we grow up some more, get busy with homework and sports, and the note-swap ends.
          Still not much of a talker, shy around boys, I am confused by the changes in my body and the new feelings they bring. I again feel voiceless.
When I am thirteen, my teacher, Ms. Carr, reads us Tolkien’s The Hobbit. She dramatizes the voices, speaking Khuzdul, the secret language of Middle Earth’s dwarves, like a native. I am fascinated by the ‘underground’ fantasy tongue.
          The next year, this beloved teacher begins to teach us French. I am enthralled by a secret language of this Earth. Though it is spoken by millions, no one in my family knows it, so in my house, it is mine alone. I have found a new voice.
          The riddles of translation stimulate my analytical mind. I memorize the algebraic rules of the language, delighting in the exceptions. I am charmed by the sound of it, captivated by its unique phonemes, the silent letters and other ‘tricks’ of altered phonetics that give a word a sound other than it appears, the way one word merges into another, like a flowing river—the avoidance of harsh consonant endings reason enough for a grammar rule. And how do those ugly nasal vowels blend with consonants to create one of the prettiest languages on earth?
          It is also during middle school that I become a devotee of the written word. What I can’t express verbally, I can say on paper. I become a prolific diarist, using writing to chart the emotional geography I am navigating my way through.
          In high school, I take more French. I learn about people on every continent who speak it as a first or second tongue, pleased to have joined their club. I am intrigued by the complex and sometimes brutal history of linguistic colonialism, responsible for the spread of European languages. I study German, too. I find joy in being multi-lingual – of having many words at hand to express my thoughts and feelings. And if the correct word eludes me, I use circumlocution to get to what I want to say.
          French replaces whistling. I use this new, personal language to self-soothe and express my feelings. “Je me sens….” I feel….yes, a kaleidoscope of emotions. “Je t’aime” can be interpreted in so many ways. Convenient for a teenage girl whose feelings change like the tides.
          I learn the French word ‘to whistle’—siffler, ‘mouth position’—embouchure, and discover that in vaudeville, female whistlers called themselves siffleuses because the use of a foreign word to describe a girl engaged in entertainment that some believe to be coarse or unrefined elevates her whistling to the fine art it is. (I later learn the term only appeases English-speaking audiences. The folk saying exists in French, too: Une poule qui chante le coq et une fille qui siffle portent malheur dans la maison.)
          In college, I am advised to pursue a practical major, business or technology, but I follow my passions. I pursue history and continue to learn French. In subsequent years I study Italian, Spanish, Japanese, Vietnamese, and Lushootseed, a Puget Sound Salish Indian language. I am fascinated by each language’s sound, melody and movement, by the way each reflects its history, organizes and categorizes concepts in a different way, and is uniquely capable of expressing what is culturally significant.
          I contemplate the significance of language in Abrahamic, Hindu, Taoist and Native American cosmologies— “In the beginning was the Word.”
          I am similarly enthralled as I study linguistics during my mid-twenties, riveted by the evolution of human language, its social and psychological nuances and ramifications. I become absorbed by the underlying structures of phonology and syntax.
          I have become an articulate champion of language. I follow in the footsteps of my childhood mentor, Ms. Carr. Following university, I teach English, history and French to a range of age-levels on four continents. I forget about whistling.

                                                                

I resign from my teaching job just months before the onslaught of Coronavirus, with plans to do international work. In March of 2020, my job is gone and my career stymied. It may be years before I can teach overseas again. I am stuck at home, struggling to find a way clear of the malaise that engulfs me. Language fails me for the second time, as I am unable to express my frustrations, fears, and grief. Past episodes, missed opportunities, and regrets find me during the quiet days and nights. I sink into depression.
          I occupy my time with mindless, long-neglected tasks. I clean out cupboards, reorganize closets, sift through old papers. Try to write. Words cannot save me.
          While sorting through a box of my deceased father-in-law’s things, I come across a wooden flute recorder. I take it out of its canvas case and fit the three parts together. Made in Switzerland, the seventy-year-old Küng alto recorder is a pleasure to hold. I put it to my lips, place my fingers over the holes, blow gently, and am delighted by its rich tone. I lift my fingers and find some higher notes. They are not as piercing as the soprano recorder I remember. It is the first time I have held a recorder since fourth grade.
          I take it apart and place it back into its case. That night, I lie awake at three a.m. Is it possible…maybe…that I can try again? Is there an opening here I need to explore? The next morning I sit in front of my computer. I find a website, Penny Gardner’s “Nine-Hole Recorder Method.” She is so encouraging. I send away for the beginners packet—instructions and easy music for the alto recorder, all for $12.95. Little risk if I fail.
          My lesson book arrives by email. I print it off and install myself, not in a dark basement, but before a light-filled south-facing window. I teach myself the correspondence between finger placement and notes on the musical scale. I play a first song. I play another.
          Sometimes, my head aches. I get discouraged by my many mistakes, my slow progress, my shaky performance. I remind myself that I don’t ever need to perform for anyone. I am much too shy. I try to cultivate a beginner’s mindset: joy in each step of learning, release from expectations, wonder at my creativity, kindness and patience toward my tender inner child. To accommodate my toddler speed and less-than-nimble fingers, I search for slow melodies. I play sad cowboy songs to match my mood and ability, “Red River Valley” and “The Streets of Laredo.”
          Pandemic isolation has laid me low, but it also brings healing. John O’Donohue, in his book of Celtic wisdom, Anam Cara, comments, “When you cease to fear your solitude, a new creativity awakens in you. Your forgotten or neglected wealth begins to reveal itself. You come home to yourself and learn to rest within.”

*

        

I begin to think of my playing as meditation. I seek a mellower sound. One day at the local music store, I see a book about the Native American flute. I recall having heard Carlos Nakai, innovative virtuoso flute player, perform many years ago, never imagining this instrument might be accessible to me. I order a red cedar flute from Blue Bear, a small shop in Alabama. It arrives a week later. I run my hand over its smooth, hand-crafted finish, touch the simple block fastened by a leather strap to the body. Its pungent aroma carries me back to childhood days perched in the backyard tree with the birds. I begin to play. The ethereal tone of its deep F-sharp resonates within me. I don’t worry about reading notes and translating symbols. I play by ear, spontaneously.
          I learn that flute meditation is practiced by Taoists as a way to commune with nature and is a Zen tradition, too. Zen players of the deep-toned shakuhachi flute endeavor to reach “one-note enlightenment” by attaining a sense of timelessness and stillness, replicating the purity of nature. It is said that the actual sound of the universe is about fifty octaves below human hearing.
          Flutes were the first musical instruments made by Homo Sapiens, the hollow bodies formed of bird bone or wooly mammoth ivory. Among North American indigenous cultures, the flute can be traced back at least 2,500 years as an instrument for ritual, entertainment, and communication—“The flute is as old as the world,” a Native American adage. Though its use was lost to some communities due to official suppression of cultural traditions by colonizers, it has seen a resurgence in recent decades. As a spiritual practice, the Native American flute is played to restore balance and harmony, to expand consciousness, and to heal.
          As I come to know my flute, I try to learn a song. I play slowly. I stumble, my fingers stiff as dry leather, as I try to extend them to cover the widely-spaced holes. I persevere. The notes come easier. I develop muscle memory. I learn another song. Perhaps I will learn a trill or vibrato one day. I have discovered a new language to help me negotiate a post-Covid geography.
          Carlos Nakai, in The Art of the Native American Flute, states, “We are born with severe limitations and shortcomings as human beings. Finding ways to overcome them…is our personal task.”
          One spring day, I moisten my lips, pucker up, and try to whistle. No sound. Perhaps I’ve lost the skill. But after a few adjustments, the clear bright warble of my childhood comes back. I whistle proudly and loudly. Some days as I whistle, a buoyancy, an unexpected joy wells up in me. I am learning it’s not too late to rewrite a story.