How
Band Saved My Life
I
was 13 years old going on 14 when my family moved to a suburb of Nashville,
Tennessee, and I had to change schools. Only many years later would I realize
that everybody experiences a difficult adolescence. But in my new school I felt
like an outsider—everyone else seemed to know each other. Plus I was tall but too
klutzy to play basketball, and I had a bad overbite and braces on my teeth and was
too self-conscious to make friends easily.
Then I joined the Band. They needed French horn players, and I and another 8th grader began practicing under the tutelage of a 9th grade trumpet player. Every day in the closet of a practice room we developed our embouchure, learned the fingering, and I applied wads of wax on my braces so as not to cut the inside of my mouth.
Little did I know it then, but Band would save my life. It provided me with a ready-made group of friends. It gave us all a collective challenge, to play together musically. And it led us to strive for excellence, individually and as an ensemble.
Then came Band Camp. I've heard tales about boot camp from soldiers and I can appreciate their experience because I remember surviving hot, humid summer days at Tennessee Tech University, learning the marching drill in the mornings and then perfecting our memorized music in the afternoons.
I can still smell the musty old uniforms we started out wearing in Marching Band, to be replaced by brand new red-white-blue uniforms that rivaled those worn by the guards at Buckingham Palace. The structure, the precision, the team effort to exact a stunning show and a fantastic sound—I gave my heart and soul to Band and reaped the benefits. (The fact that it got me out of gym class in high school was an added bonus.)
We worked together over many weeks to put together a great half-time performance at football games. We piled on to buses to travel to games and competitions and came back in the company of true friends. We learned to take orders, and to take punishment, from our Band Director and from our student officers. We worked off demerits and occasionally ate humble pie. Suffering our Band Director’s glares of disappointment—and ducking pieces of chalk he would fling in exasperation—were all worth it when he beamed with pride at our accomplishments. And he went above and beyond by expecting us not to gloat in front of other bands we had bested at contests; we had to wait until we were on the bus before we could yell and cheer and bask in our triumph.
Lugging that French horn home on the back of my bicycle, and later on the bus, did not make me popular or attractive. But I survived. I learned to be a leader in the Band. A squad leader, Assistant Signal Major, and—off and on—first chair French horn player.
Nowadays I am a Presbyterian minister serving churches on a temporary basis, usually for a couple years or so. Whenever I start a new position, the first person I always introduce myself to is the church organist, who I treat as a colleague. Together we lead worship—which for me means leading music.
Then I joined the Band. They needed French horn players, and I and another 8th grader began practicing under the tutelage of a 9th grade trumpet player. Every day in the closet of a practice room we developed our embouchure, learned the fingering, and I applied wads of wax on my braces so as not to cut the inside of my mouth.
Little did I know it then, but Band would save my life. It provided me with a ready-made group of friends. It gave us all a collective challenge, to play together musically. And it led us to strive for excellence, individually and as an ensemble.
Then came Band Camp. I've heard tales about boot camp from soldiers and I can appreciate their experience because I remember surviving hot, humid summer days at Tennessee Tech University, learning the marching drill in the mornings and then perfecting our memorized music in the afternoons.
I can still smell the musty old uniforms we started out wearing in Marching Band, to be replaced by brand new red-white-blue uniforms that rivaled those worn by the guards at Buckingham Palace. The structure, the precision, the team effort to exact a stunning show and a fantastic sound—I gave my heart and soul to Band and reaped the benefits. (The fact that it got me out of gym class in high school was an added bonus.)
We worked together over many weeks to put together a great half-time performance at football games. We piled on to buses to travel to games and competitions and came back in the company of true friends. We learned to take orders, and to take punishment, from our Band Director and from our student officers. We worked off demerits and occasionally ate humble pie. Suffering our Band Director’s glares of disappointment—and ducking pieces of chalk he would fling in exasperation—were all worth it when he beamed with pride at our accomplishments. And he went above and beyond by expecting us not to gloat in front of other bands we had bested at contests; we had to wait until we were on the bus before we could yell and cheer and bask in our triumph.
Lugging that French horn home on the back of my bicycle, and later on the bus, did not make me popular or attractive. But I survived. I learned to be a leader in the Band. A squad leader, Assistant Signal Major, and—off and on—first chair French horn player.
Nowadays I am a Presbyterian minister serving churches on a temporary basis, usually for a couple years or so. Whenever I start a new position, the first person I always introduce myself to is the church organist, who I treat as a colleague. Together we lead worship—which for me means leading music.
Recently
I planned worship for the coming Fall, chose songs from a variety of hymnals,
hummed unfamiliar tunes to myself, found familiar melodies that work better,
worked up some gospel verses for prayers, recalled a little ditty to teach the books
of the Bible, made notes to explain special music, and other details. Because
of Band I am confident in my role as music leader. Sure, there are other
aspects to my job, but music is what connects the hearts and souls of all those
present in worship.
People over here think I'm this way because I come from Music City USA. Little do they know it's because I'm a Dupont High School Marching Bulldog.
Band really did save my life, back when I thought I was the only misfit. But now I can honestly say Band made my life worth living, starting in the 8th grade.
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