Several generations of different immigrant groups passed through Seward Park High School, on New York’s Lower East Side. When I taught there in the 1970s, the population was about a third Chinese immigrants, most of them recently arrived from Hong Kong. There was a very active Chinese Culture Club, which produced an annual New Year extravaganza called “China Night,” featuring an impressive parade of dragons, martial arts experts, singers, and dancers.

At the time, like every other boomer with a guitar, I was an aspiring singer-songwriter, playing at church-basement and college coffee houses. My act included a few original songs, plus covers of James Taylor, Randy Newman et al. My students knew I played the guitar and sang because I did occasional musical history lessons, leading the class in songs from the period we were studying. I had mimeographed sheets for Songs of the Civil War, Songs of Industrialization, Songs of Unions, even Songs of the French Revolution. One year, as China Night approached, a Culture Club delegation asked me if I would perform.

“But I don’t know any Chinese songs,” I protested.

“No problem. We’ll teach you,” they said confidently.

The song they taught me was called “Rainbow Sister,” which I learned phonetically. (My devotion to my students did not extend to learning Chinese characters.) The song began: “Hung Chou Mei Mei, Ai ya Hai yo,” and I practiced diligently. Sweet Baby James” it was not. When they translated it for me, I wrote a poetic English version, and did my best to memorize both.

[Audio below]

After a week or two of practice it was time for my Chinese bilingual debut. I was somewhere in the middle of the program and waited nervously through several lion dances and various singers, jugglers and other acts.

The one right before me was a martial arts exhibition. It started out tamely enough, with some high kicks and fighting demonstrations, but the feats became increasingly impressive, leading up to the finale. As drums beat furiously in the background, a shirtless kid came out and lay on his back on a bench. Another kid put a spiked block of wood onto his chest, spikes facing down. Then he put another block of wood on top of that, so the kid on the bench had the spiked block of wood on his chest and another on top of that one. The second kid breathed in deeply and jumped onto the top block of wood, splitting it in two, then jumped off. The guy lying down stood up unscathed, smiled at the audience and calmly walked away as the crowd went crazy.

Then I had to go on.

I walked up to the stage while the buzz from the martial arts feat still filled the auditorium. By that time, I had performed in a lot of situations – the classroom, coffeehouses, colleges, summer camps, and I generally didn’t get nervous. But I was a awed by this scene and the prospect of singing in Chinese as I took the stage and stared out at the sea of Asian faces wondering “what is this “lo fan” (foreign person) doing in our show?”

I pretty much had “Rainbow Sister” down after a few weeks of practice, but as a fail-safe, I taped the lyrics to the top of my guitar. I read my cheat sheet one more time, waited a few more seconds, and then crooned out to the crowd,

“Hung Chow Mei, Mei Ai Ya Hai Yo.”

There was a second of stunned silence, followed by an audience reaction I’ve never experienced before or since: an astounding combination of hysterical laughter at my pronunciation, and an ovation because I had even attempted it. They were deeply appreciative yet convulsed with guffaws. I finished the first verse, with each line a similar combination of laughs and cheers.

Then I sang the first line of my English translation: “Rainbow Sister, Ai Ya Ha Yo” (the latter being untranslatable “tra-la-la” type syllables), prompting a renewed roar from the audience – this time laughter and surprise from hearing the song in translation for the first time. I finished and walked off the stage to thunderous, if not spiked-wood-block-breaking applause.

I was hooked. Each year I sang a new Chinese Song to appreciative, if not always thunderous applause at the event.

A tradition was born.

Here is it: The 1973 Performance of Hung Chow Mei, Mei Ai Ya Hai Yo (Rainbow Sister)

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