If you prefer to listen, you’ll find an original audio recording here.👆
Of all the meaningful lessons from my past, I consider the two-finger whistle one of the best. Living on a farm, it was a ready tool for summoning feral children, better even than the brass ship’s bell that hung on the back porch post. My daughters’ backyard was measured in acres. A high-pitched whistle coaxed little sprites away from their woodland reverie, or summoned them from whatever mischief they’d dreamed up at the water’s edge.
Today, that whistle quiets a room full of noisy people, sends a signal of support at a rally, and hails the husband about to drive off without his lunch. I learned how to do it in a much smaller backyard.
We’d been renting a little, two-story cape for just about a year when my parents decided its air conditioning—or lack thereof—was not suitable for a second southern summer, at least not for my hot-blooded father. The house they purchased was a basic brick rancher a short ways across town, not nearly as cute as the one we left behind but much more functional. In keeping with mid-60s suburbia, it featured a wide-open backyard, flat and virtually treeless, where kids could roam. My one brother was finally old enough that he no longer required a fence to keep him contained, but I imagine being able to shoo him outside to “run it off” was an attraction for my parents. On long summer evenings, neighborhood kids converged on our yard for kick ball, kick-the-can, and rollerbat, fueled by cans of Charles Chips.
Rebecca, my closest pal, lived just a few doors down. The year we turned 12, or maybe it was 13 (neither of us can say for sure, and yes, I asked), she learned the exceptional art of a two-finger whistle and, as good friends do, passed the technique on to me. I spent weeks with my fingers in my mouth, blowing and spewing, until I finally nailed it.
Rebecca and I talked recently about how her grandfather and my father could make the same sound without the two-finger assist. Despite our own skills, we have no idea how that’s physically possible.
As regular whistlers go, my dad was terrific. He could tootle out a tune quite reliably, though keeping his singing voice on key was unpredictable. By contrast, my mother used her unwavering alto voice in the church choir, but I can’t remember ever hearing her whistle, odd for a woman as musical as she was.
Like a kid out daydreaming in a big backyard, I conjure popular songs with whistling in the mix. Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay” is a song I will forever associate with the magical time I met my sailor husband. Its whistled section is memorable for most, as are the ones in Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” and Billy Joel’s “The Stranger.” And speaking of strange, we can’t forget the seven dwarfs who whistled on their way to work. They function well enough to run a synchronized mining operation but lose the ability to care for themselves the moment a runaway teenage princess moves in. Heigh-ho, that tracks.
I note that every one of these whistlers is male and settle in for a second brainstorming session, this time focusing on women.
I come up with The Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian,” Pat Benatar’s “Love Is a Battlefield,” Beyoncé’s “Texas Hold ‘Em,” and “Can I Get It,” a newer Adele song. Of these, the only one I can confirm whistled her own part is Pat Benatar, and that because her husband and guitarist, Neil Giraldo, talked her into it, citing Otis Redding as precedent.
What’s the deal? This feels like more than a coincidence. Next thing I know, I’ve stumbled into a tangled web of predictably infuriating history.
Did you know that “A whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor men?” This is an English proverb, with variations that claim the Devil himself would show up for the persecution. In some Christian folklore, a woman’s whistling made the Virgin Mary’s heart bleed. One legend blames a woman who stood by whistling while the nails for the cross were forged, which is a lot of weight to hang on a tune.
In 1883, Popular Science Monthly published an account of the prejudice against women whistling, the writer noting that women were widely discouraged from doing it, despite being perfectly capable of it. The author theorized that women self-policed because whistling distorts their features.
Hold up. For whose benefit, exactly, were we scrutinizing our faces?
At sea, where whistling was already considered capable of calling up a gale, a woman made matters that much worse. In fact, her mere presence was bad luck, whether or not she brought any notes forth from her pursed lips. A captain in Scarborough, so the story goes, once refused to let a young woman board because she whistled; the ship was lost on its next voyage, which spared her the blame she would have received had she been aboard.
Women were thought to anger the seas unless their breasts were exposed, as in the figureheads that graced the bow of many a ship. Sailors, it seems, could be flexible in how they elected to appease the gods.
I’d like to say it’s reassuring to know I’m not the only one to notice the gender disparity here, and I’d also like to say I’m surprised. Women have threatened civilization since the dawn of man, after all. I can’t prove that old taboos explain the musical imbalance. Plenty of things shape who ends up whistling on a record, starting with who gets studio time, but I’d love to hear a better theory.
Notice, too, who gets the publicity: the whistling man is the cowboy ambling into town, the loverboy beneath the window, the singer who makes it look effortless, while the whistling woman is ill-omened.
A long time ago, my husband and I established our own whistle code. We use it to find each other when we’re separated in public spaces. It’s remarkable how a two-note tune rises above the din of a department store. In our recent reminiscence about our summer-found skill, Rebecca and I agreed that our spouses seem rather proud to be partnered with women who whistles like they mean it.
We’re proud of ourselves, too. Whistling with two fingers is like driving a stick shift with your face. It takes determination and a lot of practice. Most people never get it in gear. But it can occasionally get you out of a dodgy situation. I’m not opposed to teaching an army of women how to get a little louder. All you need are a pair of fingers and a working set of lungs.
~Elizabeth
Sheesh! Some rules need to be broken, right? If it’s not already dead, I hope this one is on its last legs. On a more upbeat note:
Is there a skill are you eager to pass on to someone you know?
Do you have a signal, a word, or a whistle, that only a few people understand?
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To everyone who spends time with me at Chicken Scratch, my sincere gratitude. You’re part of the soundtrack of my life, and I appreciate you.
Afterward:
If you’ve been with me for a little while, you know I typically close with a call for collective action. The biggest one I’ve got right now is encouraging people to vote. Maybe offer to bring a friend or neighbor along. In the spirit of collaboration, consider this: Someone showed you something once that you now take for granted. Think of who it was and then figure out who’s waiting for you to do the same.
Try this: (A Learn How Video)
The best two finger whistle tutorial I could find (I spent a stupid amount of time looking) is on a site called The Art of Manliness. I’m just going to let that detail land with no further comment. Watch it, learn it, and then be the female instructor the internet couldn’t find for me.
Oh, one final bit: I use whichever fingers are free and clean, usually just my two index fingers, sometimes pinkies. Middle fingers work, too, but you might want to reserve those for other responsibilities.
See you soon!
I couldn’t do a two-finger whistle, but did a few tunes in my day.
But I was obnoxiously good at blowing grass! Yessiree … a long blade, held taut between thumb tips and heels … simply screamed!!!
cj
Never tried it, just did, worked first time. Probably because I drove stick for years.
This made me smile (and whistle,) thank you!