Do not ever tell me that marching band isnât important.
I have had so many problems with public schools putting all the emphasis on athletics. When a schoolâs budget is cut, they donât choose to take a little from each program. No. They choose to completely eradicate the arts programs, usually starting with the marching band. If you donât play sports, youâre not a valuable asset, youâre not qualified for scholarships, and you mean nothing. Marching band? Why would we be impressed that youâre in marching band?
Okay, fine. Anyone can do marching band. Anyone can spend hours on the field doing the same forty-second section over and over and over and over. Anyone can hit over 75 precise dots on the field with the correct step sizes, the correct amount of steps, the correct timing, without being so much as an inch to either side, in order and without looking at the yard line markers or the field. Anyone can memorize all of those extremely specific points on the grass and varying counts for steps and then execute them with a shako visor pulled down over your eyes and looking up at the press box the whole time. If you look down at the yard line markers to see where you are, congratulations, you just lost points for the group.
Anyone can memorize eight pages of notes, rhythms, dynamics, phrasing, and tempos. (But of course, before you do that you have to learn an instrument with hundreds of different fingerings and learn how to make slight changes in your lips to change notes and stay in tune.) Memorize all seven and a half minutes of music and then marry it to the seventy-five pages of drill you memorized. Do them both perfectly and at the same time. But you canât just do what you memorized. You have to do it in perfect sync with everyone around you and know how to make the slightest adjustments to fit perfectly within the group. If youâre an inch to the right or barely a thousandth of a step sharp, itâll throw everything off.
Then add in the fact that you donât get any individual credit for doing this. The closest youâll come to recognition is your identity lumped into âThe Such-and-Such Marching Bandâ as you all march onto the field looking exactly the same. You donât have a number on your back. You have a uniform intended to erase you and turn you into dot T14 and nothing more.
But, for some reason you canât explain, you love it. You love throwing everything you have into this ridiculously precise pursuit and then not getting any credit for it. You start thanking people when they call you a band geek. You start taping pictures of marching bands into your locker. And of course, marching band doesnât give any individual recognition, so you donât idolize any particular marcher. You idolize the entire ensemble. And you start practicing.
Because youâre no longer satisfied with being a high school band geek. You want more. So you research the major league of marching band: Drum Corps International. Oh, how you would give anything to march a show in a Cadets uniform.
Major leagues, right? Itâs like the NFL, you get paid to do what you love. Youâve worked hard to be good enough, so you get paid to show the world what youâre made of.
If you want to march in the major leagues, you not only have to become the master of your instrument (or learning a different instrument entirely, and still becoming the master of it) but you have to fork over an average of $2500. For one season. So youâve worked your ass off and practiced hours a day and somehow managed to get into an ensemble. So then you work two jobs to pay for it.
Youâre paying a lot of money and putting in a lot of hard work for this. Surely you get some luxury during this completely preposterous ordeal.
You get to spend no less than fourteen hours a day outside on the field. You run multiple miles every day and march about twenty times that. You get a three-minute water break every two hours. Your bed is a bus seat, or a sleeping bag on a gymnasium floor, if youâre lucky.
So you spend the whole summer rehearsing and performing and never getting any credit. You sacrifice everything, including your health and financial stability, to go out onto a football field and march through an absurdly difficult show and know that no one will ever know what youâve done. You are the only one who knows what youâve put into this. At least you think so, but then you look at the person in an identical uniform next to you, and you know that they know, too. So you do it anyway.
Your nerves are damaged from the cold. Your skin is damaged from the sun. Your joints are damaged from marching and marching and marching. Youâre physically and mentally drained, your body is irreversibly compromised, youâre broke as hell, and all you have to show for it is a polyester jacket and a couple of blurry photographs.
But sports are what require hard work and dedication, not marching band.
Even though you complained basically the entire time you marched and even though youâre done with it, you pull out those photographs and you remember. You remember your first day of high school band camp when you had absolutely no idea what you were getting yourself into. You remember your first final retreat when they announced your bandâs name as state champions, and you wanted to cry with happiness but you werenât allowed to move, so you just clenched your fists so tight that your fingernails dug white crescents into your palms. You remember coming back the next year and thinking you knew everything as a sophomore, only to realize there was still so much to learn. You remember the band trips you spent months fundraising for, all the lame tourist attractions you visited between performances, and how you wouldnât trade those memories for all the money in the world. You remember being a junior and getting nervous because people looked up to you now: as an upperclassman, as a section leader, as a friend. And then you were a senior and you cried on the final day of band camp. You remember how your life became a series of lasts. You had to decide which of the freshmen would inherit your band cubby, your lucky bottle of valve oil, your bus seat. You went to graduation but it didnât mean anything because you still had one last band trip coming up. You didnât shed a tear when you tossed your cap but you cried like a child after your last parade. You remember on the plane ride home, you expected to feel devastated and heartbroken, but you just felt⊠empty.
You remember printing out what seemed like the most difficult solo in the world. You remember driving up to your college and entering a room with a chair and a stand and a couple of people giving you skeptical looks. You remember getting an email from the college marching band with your audition results and reading it with tears of joy in your eyes because you realized it was starting all over again.
But marching band doesnât mean anything. It doesnât matter.
Tell me. Tell me that it doesnât matter. Tell me when my closet is overflowing with lyre sheets. Tell me when my search history contains âtrumpet fingeringsâ and âhow to start a soundsport teamâ. Tell me when I have framed photos of my band hung in my room. Tell me when I was holding a trophy up and cheering for everything that led up to it. Tell me when I almost quit but didnât because quitting would be equivalent to killing a part of who I am. Tell me when Iâm crying, when Iâm laughing, when Iâm marching.
Tell me when Iâm standing on the field for the last time, knowing that everything behind me will last forever and that nothing will ever mean more to me than this⊠and all youâve got is money and a jersey.
Do not ever tell me that marching band isnât important. It is everything to me, and it is everything to millions of other band geeks across the world.
When you refuse to support kids because they participate in the arts rather than athletics, youâre no better than the football player who takes lunch money from nerds.
To all of my fellow band geeks⊠keep marching, even if the world tells you itâs not worth it. It is. Continue your band career in college. Audition for a drum corps. Stay active in your high school band as an alumnus supporter. You are all my family. Thank you.
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