Arts Vanity: How I Learned to Whistle

I never could whistle as a kid. It was one of my biggest disappointments. Every night when my dad got back from work, he would whistle like a little bird, announcing to us — my sister and me — that he was home.

Recreating this short, two-part whistle — “whee-whoo” — should have been a simple feat. My sister got it almost immediately. For me, on the other hand, it was impossible. It quickly became my life’s goal.

My parents tried to teach me, explaining different techniques and methods. While they meant the best, most of their suggestions were entirely ineffective — setting me years off course. I tried and tried, year after year, moving air around to create something potentially resembling a whistle — hoping for some sort of sign that I was at least making progress.

Sometimes, I would be able to make a vague sound that resembled wind howling or a swinging baseball bat. Loud; just not any specific tune. I counted these as a win. Other times, my attempts would sound like a tire deflating — sad, weak, and exhausted.

You don’t know how many times I’ve been brought to the brink of tears as I desperately tried to whistle while crossing the street, walking to school, or wandering through Central Park with my dog, Teddy. Passersby likely assumed I was stressed or something, exhaling air to keep my cool — perfectly coupled with the look of despair on my face.

After maybe six or so years of trying, I stopped. I gave in. I would never whistle, I thought. It was not for me.

So, life went on. When friends discussed bucket-list items like traveling to Japan or becoming a movie star, I would think of whistling. When I heard people whistle on the street, my eyes would naturally find them, sadly peering over at what could have been.

This past summer, my over-10-years-old, 12-pound dog, Teddy, decided to run away. We always knew he was a flight risk. The stubborn little guy would jump at any chance of freedom he could get. Poor thing.

So, when he escaped out the front door — which I accidentally left ajar — and ran at full speed down the driveway, I thought to myself, “Thomas. This is your chance.” I gathered my breath for a loud whistle, thinking that, if anything, necessity would help me succeed. I imagined a whistle so perfect that it would make little Teddy halt in his tracks in shock and awe.

When only the sound of wheezing air was produced and Teddy was now a tiny white speck in the distance, I realized how much damage I would continue to do without being able to whistle. In that very moment, my determination was reignited, and I practiced and practiced and practiced every day since — after, of course, finding Teddy sniffing around some bushes.

And, one day during Thanksgiving break this year, as I pursed my lips for my daily practice session, a soft, unassuming whistle was produced. I stopped to look around. My dad wasn’t there. It was definitely mine.

A fluke, I declared out loud in defiant disbelief, and proceeded to try again. “Whee-whoo.” My mouth gaped in shock. It was emotional, after all. Learning how to whistle took me most of my life, and here I was — an almost-21-year-old waiting in line to get “Wicked” tickets — whistling. My eyes welled with a different kind of tears.

Now, in the glorious two weeks since break, instead of putting in my AirPods, I whistle. Whistle while walking to the Barker Center. Whistle while making my bed. Whistle while reading. Now, people don’t stare with pity or confusion at my sad whistle attempts. Not anymore. Now, all I get are exasperated stares — ones clearly saying, “Can this guy please stop whistling?”

Well, you know what? No. I can’t.

—Outgoing Culture Executive and Incoming Arts Chair Thomas A. Ferro is easily located; all you have to do is listen and you’ll probably hear him whistling “La La Land” or Billie Eilish or something. If that fails, he can be reached at thomas.ferro@thecrimson.com.