Marching On
A short memoir by Sarah Deggs
Towards the end of the summer, a week or so before this hot Louisiana weather started to cool down, the high school students from the year before minus the newly graduated seniors gathered to start the new marching season and to meet us, the new coming seventh grade students. We were all sweaty from the summer heat and anticipation, anxious to be a part of an actual band and scared about whether or not we would be accepted by the upper classmen. We all sat quietly on the carpeted floor waiting for our teacher to preach about the upcoming year in band. Our band teacher bounded to the front of the band hall, his smile stretched a mile wide, contentedly welcoming the new pupils to the band and greeting his old students with a hearty chuckle and a, “Good to have you back”.
As the seventh graders assembled instruments,we scanned the hands of the other players to see if they possessed the same piece of equipment as the one we held. I held my own well worn brass baby close to my chest, hoping to gain comfort from the cold metal. As I waited tensely, considering taking the painful walk over to the group I was destined to belong to, they seemed to notice my frightened posture and unsure glances. Just as I was considering retreating to the safety of my friends who had already been accepted into their designated groups, the posy of trumpets walked in my direction, their smiles inviting and warm. This would not only begin the starting point in my first marching season, but also my music career.
Weeks of painful, tiresome mornings learning the right way to march passed by and I eventually found myself starting my first real day at the Rosepine Junior/ Senior High School, juggling both the torturous tasks of being in marching band and attending my first year in a high school. Days, then weeks, of early morning practices passed by and I found that our first performance of our half time show was approaching rapidly. I started to mark the days until I was to march, not on the rugged practice field, but an actual football field, marked with beautiful white paint and grass cut to perfection.
The day arrived and all I could think about was performing before an audience. We had marched to the reserved area of the bleachers, set up, and waited. Finally it was our time to play our stands tunes, derived from modern pop to rock oldies. The first quarter passed by and we were winning by 6 points. As the timer for the second quarter hit the five minute mark, our drum major got up and announced that we would be heading down to the field momentarily. We all packed up music, lyres, and flip folders and headed down to a patch of grass out of public view to play scales and portions of our prepared songs. I never realized how nervous I had become until I was in view of the crowd, marching in the line, my breathing long and jagged. I could have fainted then and there on that football field, but as the drum major called the players to horns up and we began to play, the noise of the crowd faded into the music, and all I could do was play and march. I had never felt better in all my life. With my adrenaline pumping, the clapping of the spectators seemed to keep time with my racing heart beat, and I felt alive.
Every time I march onto that field with the other band kids, I relive that feeling of pure need to be there on that perfectly green grass, becoming one with the music I make. I can’t imagine my life without the thrill of marching, or without the family I have found in the band. And although I may be picked on because of my passion in music, I wouldn’t trade the band for the world. They are my closest friends and I can’t live without them by my side
